


Apartment 202

by breakfastoversugar



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Established Franklin Delano Donut/Frank "Doc" DuFresne, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakfastoversugar/pseuds/breakfastoversugar
Summary: When Dexter Grif and Dick Simmons moved into Apartment 202 in the Blood Gulch Apartment Complex, they expected to be turning over a new leaf. Neither of them were in school anymore and they both had stable jobs. They found a decent place that was an affordable price that wasn’t too far from Grif’s work. It wasn’t falling apart and infested with bugs like Grif’s last place and it was in New Armonia which meant it was far enough away from Simmons’ awful parents. At first, it seemed like a blessing. They thought that this place was too good to be true.And it was.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Franklin Delano Donut/Frank "Doc" DuFresne
Comments: 55
Kudos: 38





	1. Apartment 202

**Author's Note:**

> howdy! this is mostly gonna work like an anthology collection, which means that every work is (pretty much) going to be a its own standalone thing! its gonna stay grimmons-centric for the most part, and its gonna be (mostly) from grifs perspective! 
> 
> honestly i just write things i wanna see this is incredibly self indulgent yall

Grif sighs and drags a hand down his face. The excited and irritated screaming upstairs has been going on for the past thirty minutes. It’s something that happens so frequently, that neither are surprised when it happens. Grif turns his head to face his roommate, Simmons, who is clutching a book between his hands so tightly it might rip and giving an unseeing stare to the pages. “This is awful,” Grif points out simply. 

Simmons gives an exasperated little sigh and shuts his book. Idly, Grif wonders if Simmons was waiting for Grif to bring it up first. “Yeah. It absolutely sucks,” Simmons agrees with a little upturned whine at the end, “Church and Caboose really need to learn how to be quiet.” 

The larger man decided to send his roommate a little lazy smile to lighten the suffering atmosphere, “And here I thought we were loud.”

The redhead scoffs. His back straightens from his typical unconscious slouch. “As loud as the other people that live here? No way in hell.”

It’s true, they’re far from the loudest residents in their little building. When Dexter Grif and Dick Simmons moved into Apartment 202 in the Blood Gulch Apartment Complex, they expected to be turning over a new leaf. Neither of them were in school anymore and they both had stable jobs. They found a decent place that was an affordable price that wasn’t too far from Grif’s work. It wasn’t falling apart and infested with roaches like Grif’s last place (Not his fault! It was like that when he moved in.) and it was in New Armonia which meant it was far enough away from Simmons’ awful parents. At first, it seemed like a blessing. They thought that this place was too good to be true. And it was. 

“Damn Blues!” Another neighbor's voice - specifically their neighbor across the hall, Sarge’s - carries in from the hall, “Can’t you see I’m trying to work on Lopez! He needs a toast function!”

Lopez probably had some quip to say in response. Something funny and ignored and misunderstood because of the language barrier, but Grif and Simmons’ couldn’t hear it from their apartment. Lopez, thankfully, didn’t yell much. When he did, everyone except Sarge himself feared the robot uprising.

“Is there a party going on?” Another voice joined Sarge’s in the hall. “And you didn’t invite Donut?”

“Shut up Reds! I can’t focus on yelling at Caboose!” Church screams.

Grif shakes his head a little. Another person to add to the yelling. “We could move. It would be so easy, Simmons.” He turns to his roommate and places a hand on his shoulder casually, “We could just pack up our shit and leave.”

“We can’t do that,” Simmons shakes and slumps forward into his normal slouch. He folds his long, bony arms into his lap. “Even if we really, really want to.”

“Simmons!” One of the voices in the hall barks, “I need ‘yer help plotting against these diabolical Blues!”

Grif’s brown eyes lock with Simmons’ green ones. In almost slow motion, Simmons starts to move to get up just as Grif reaches out to grab his wrist. “Don’t,” Grif pleads - warns? A little bit of both. “You’re not going to help them stop yelling. Carolina is just going to come upstairs and threaten to beat the shit out of all of us if we don’t stop yelling.”

Simmons’ eyes dart from Grif to the door and back roughly three times. “But Sarge,” He says miserably. He doesn’t pull his wrist away from Grif’s grasp and instead chooses to just linger for a few moments. “You could go too! It could be a whole Red thing!”

“I’m not going out there to yell at the Blues when they’re just yelling at each other!” 

“But-!”

“Hey!” Tucker’s voice interrupts them, “Can someone please tell Grif and Simmons to stop yelling about stopping us from yelling! It’s not doing what they think it is!”

“Fuck you Tucker!” Grif shouts and gets up from their couch, much to Simmons’ hidden glee. Grif ignores that in favor of shouting up to their ceiling, “Fuck all the Blues! You guys suck!”

“Suck it, Blues!” Simmons shouts, giddy. 

Privately, Grif thinks the rivalry between floors that Sarge insists they have is dumb. Even more privately, Grif thinks the Reds are better. 

Grif ends up pulling Simmons out into the hall under the guise of it ‘being personal now’. They probably would’ve ended up there even if Tucker didn’t say anything, but no one brings it up. 

“Men,” Sarge says with his hands on his hips. “The Blues have gone far enough! First they yell incredibly loud and then they attack the character of my best soldier!” He shakes his head, “They are absolutely evil. I cannot believe the audacity of those no good awful dirty blues.”

“We aren’t soldiers,” Grif points out. He is ignored by the older man.

“Los odio a todos,” Lopez says in what everyone on the red team is sure is a loving remark full of hope and glory for the red team.

“He’s saying that he loves us like a family!” Donut translates. The Reds nod because what else would Lopez be saying? He’s always so nice to everyone. Good old reliable Lopez. He’s so kind.

There’s some footsteps on the stairwell which all the Reds seem to notice at once. They all glance at each other before looking back at the stairwell. Tucker, Church, and Caboose all come from the floor above, while former-Freelancer-turned-Blue Washington sheepishly comes up from the first floor. Just like that, the Blues are staring at the Reds. There’s a blissful silence for a second, a tense standoff. 

“Hello!” Caboose greets cheerfully, “I do not think Church enjoyed all of your screaming.”

And then all hell broke loose. There was nonsensical screaming and shouting at each other. At some point Doc comes out of his and Donut’s shared apartment and gets wrapped up in the argument while simultaneously not being acknowledged in it. At another time, the elevator opens to reveal Locus, who just shakes his heads and closes it again. 

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one that threatened Lopez and Donut with bodily harm when I moved in!” Simmons shouts and crosses his arms stubbornly over his chest. 

“That-” Washington sputters a little, “That was one time, Simmons! You can’t hold that over my head. Donut’s not even mad about it!” The former Freelancer frantically motions to the man currently dressed in lightish-red. 

“I’m not mad at you anymore but we’re all yelling!”

Sarge whips around to look at Donut, an incredulous look over his face. “Donut, we have to be mad at the Blues! For everything they’ve ever done! Including their birth!” The older man puts his hands on his hips and angles his face toward the ceiling as if he is looking heroically off into the sky. “That’s the Red way.”

“Very inspirational, sir!” Simmons cheers him on.

“Oh, literally shut up,” Tucker groans and lolls his head back, “You guys are so dramatic. The whole Red vs. Blue thing we’ve got going on doesn’t even make any sense! Sarge just made it up one day because he’s, like, crazy or something! I don’t even know what a Freelancer is!” Tucker throws his hands into the air in a frustrated way, “I mean, I guess I could understand if you wanted some dumb rivalry about which floor was better, but what the fuck is a Freelancer? Someone who isn’t Red or Blue? But then there’s Doc!”

“Who is a Red!” Donut chimes in.

“Actually Donut,” Doc explains quietly, “I don’t have an alignment!” He is ignored.

“Why did I get kicked out of the Freelancers?” Wash mutters miserably. Then realizes they should all be yelling and raises his voice to repeat miserably, “Why did I get kicked out of the Freelancers?”

Church huffs a little and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah,” He agrees. Loudly, “Wasn’t Tex a Blue and a Freelancer? Why can’t Wash be like that?”

Sarge scoffs at him. He gives a critical eye to people loudly complaining at him. “‘Yer just saying that because you’re a Blue!” His volume peaks at the word blue and Grif wishes he could never hear Sarge again in his life. “Everyone that matters thinks the war between Reds and Blues is a serious issue! An issue over how much you suck! Because you’re a dirty, no good, good-for-nothing Blue! And having a Freelancer on your team again would make you too strong!” He mumbles out a barely audible, “Wouldn’t be fair.”

“I think no good and good-for-nothing are the same thing,” Caboose points out helpfully, “It is okay, Captain Sarge, it is very easy to get confused.”

“One Blue is allowed and it’s Caboose.” Sarge nods.

“That’s literally so dumb!” Church yells. He puts his hands on his hips and his bright green eyes transmit a look of death right to Sarge, “You have to know how fucking dumb you sound right now, right?”

“I think we should all take a breather,” Doc says, and is ignored.

“It’s not stupid,” Donut defends Sarge. Sarge nods in approval and Simmons gasps a little. He turns to look at Donut. Grif pretends to not see how he sulks. “Nothing Red Team does is stupid!”

“Well, Sarge once said Grif and Simmons’ walls were ugly so he tried to put holes in them,” Wash points out. His face then sours a little, “With my hammer,” He tacks on. The ex-Freelancer’s arms dangle by his side as he lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

Simmons looks like he wants to jump to Sarge’s defense, but he can’t find anything to say. He puffs out his chest a little bit and opens his mouth but… 

Sarge turns to look at them and gives them a critical eye. “Well, Grif,” He says, motioning to the man in question, “Got anything to say? Anything to defend your wonderful leader?”

“Nope.”

Simmons slaps his arm gently. He gets a little closer to Grif. Grif swallows a little at the proximity and ignores Tucker’s comments of ‘this is how they kiss’. “You’ve got to think of something,” He urges, “Come on, Grif, we’re fighting for the Red Team out here.”

“Got nothing to say,” Grif comments and shuffles back a little. Simmons’ eyebrows pull together as he lets out an offended little huff. Sarge opens his mouth to yell at Grif.

Luckily for him, someone else comes by just quick enough to save his skin. “That’s enough,” Carolina’s stern voice rings out through the hall. Everyone but Church and Caboose stand up a little straighter. Church smiles like a cat who got the cream. 

“Hello!” Caboose greets, “We were talking to the Reds! I think they were about to start putting holes in walls.” 

Donut shakes his head a little, “Oh, we weren’t!” He gives Carolina a big, charming smile, “Holes in the wall are so not in right now! Although, I guess in a few circumstances they could be fun.”

“Oh my god,” Tucker shouts, “Are we doing this? Fuck yeah!” 

“Like we could add some super cute decorations! What were you thinking Tucker?”

Carolina clears her throat. “I’m done hearing all of you yell at each other.” She crosses her arms. All of their eyes look at her muscles for a second but then they quickly go back to her face. “Everyone should go back into their own apartments and live their own lives.” She nods a little and her red hair, pulled back in a teal hair tie bounces with it. “Quietly,” She adds for good measure.

Church lets out a little laugh and gives a half hearted shrug, “Look at that. A Blue coming to shut up you loud-ass Reds.” Sarge scowls at him, but that just makes him break out into a shit-eating grin.

Carolina gives her brother an unimpressed look. “I’m not a Blue. I’m not a Red, either,” She turns to Sarge. “I’m neutral. Like actually neutral.”

“Like me!” Doc cheers weakly. He is ignored. 

“So you can’t claim this as a win for the Blues. Sorry, Church.” Carolina shrugs at him. Church’s self satisfied smirk has turned into one of pure dismay. Carolina and Church leave, the younger brother following her on her heels and sputtering about how ‘that’s not fair, we’re siblings Carolina’. 

Grif opens up his apartment door and gives a look to Simmons. The lanky man looks between him and Sarge for a few seconds before deciding he probably isn’t wanted anymore and slipping back into their shared apartment. Grif goes in after him and makes sure to lock the door. 

Simmons perches on their couch and waits for him. Grif drops himself onto it gracelessly and sprawls out the best he can. Simmons puts his long legs in Grif’s lap. “I swear,” The lanky man curses, “The apartment should come with a warning: Don’t move here unless you’re interested in daily nonsense.”

Grif nods along, stretches his arms over the back of their couch, lets out a yawn “Yeah. It should also come with a warning that says: Don’t move in here.”

Simmons pouts at him. Grif really loves that expression because his bottom lip is so thin but he draws his eyebrows together and his nose wrinkles and that moves around some of the freckles because his face is all scrunched up and - Grif thinks he maybe spends too long looking at Simmons’ face. “It’s not that bad,” His best friend kicks him in the leg gently, “It’s better than our last places. Plus the people here aren’t… Too bad,” Simmons gives a little shrug and goes to turn on the television. “We’re watching Star Wars. No complaining.”

“Yes sir,” Grif says with a light laugh. Despite the loud people and their awful, strange tendencies, Grif knows that this apartment was practically a blessing for the two of them. And both Grif and Simmons know they would miss all of their eclectic neighbors if something happened to them. Even if they loudly proclaim that they hate all of them. So maybe this place wasn’t so awful. Maybe.

Not that Grif would ever say that out loud.


	2. DIRTBAGS!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Simmons,” He says, dramatically leaning on a shelf filled with various plants, “I don’t think we’ll ever find Sarge. Or our way out.” Grif’s face pinches. He furrows his bushy eyebrows and his nose wrinkles and he pushes his lips together as he grimaces, “We live here now. We live at Home Depot.”
> 
> “Don’t say that,” Simmons scolds him, “We’ll be able to find him. Even if it takes hours… or days… maybe years.”

“Grif, I can’t take this anymore!” Simmons shrieks. The door to the bathroom swings open to reveal the redhead. He is wearing a robe and his hair is dripping with water right into his eyes. Grif blinked dazedly at him from his spot on their couch. “I have to tell you something. Like right now,” He crosses the distance from their bathroom to the couch. Simmons sits right in front of Grif and the way his green eyes stare into Grif’s brown makes the orange clad man a little nervous. “I hate the water pressure here. It’s so bad.”

Grif stares wide-eyed at him. “This is about water pressure? Seriously?” He breaks eye contact and shakes his head, “I thought there was like, a huge problem!”

Simmons huffs at his roommate. He crosses his arms over his chest in a dramatic display of irritation and pokes his thin bottom lip out in a mock pout.“This is a huge problem, Grif! I know you only bathe once a month-”

“Not true.”

“But I actually enjoy being clean!” Simmons continues despite the interruption. “And getting clean is hell when we have such shitty water pressure!”

Grif opens his mouth to argue back to him but before he can say anything there is a loud banging coming from their front door. It is angry sounding and persistent. It’s not like a normal knock where someone would rasp their knuckles across the door two or three times before waiting. It’s consistent and loud and the person doesn’t wait between bursts of knocking. Grif wonders if they have bruised knuckles. 

Grif and Simmons exchange a look. Simmons looks startled, his eyes are wide and his hands are balled up into his robe so tightly his knuckles turn into the color #FFFFFF. “Grif,” He hisses out, “Go answer the door.”

“Why me?” Grif says nonchalantly, “You’re the one who likes doing things. I don’t like doing anything. Or talking to anyone.” He leans back on the couch and lets his head roll around on the cushions. 

“I’m in a robe!” The redhead squeaks, “People can’t see me like this! I have to go change! So you can- Why are they still knocking?!” He nearly shouts, turning to the door just in time to see it forcibly opened by neither Grif nor Simmons. 

There is a panic. Grif stands because what the fuck? Someone just technically broke into their apartment. Simmons stands at Grif’s side, but he is rapidly radiating nervous energy. It takes a second for them to realize it, but all anxieties are squashed when they hear a familiar, “Dirtbags!”

“Sarge?!” Grif and Simmons shouted in unison. The tension melted out of Simmons’ shoulders instantly. He sounded very relieved and happy to see the older man in front of them. Grif let out a sound more akin to despairing. 

Sarge marches into their apartment, and he’s only wearing a white t-shirt, some red boxer shorts, a pair of long socks, and red bunny slippers. Underneath one arm he is holding a newspaper. Where did he even find that? “I was grabbing my newspaper off my porch-”

“We don’t have porches! This is an apartment complex!” Grif cries.

“When I thought I heard the sound of Simmons shouting at Grif! Of course, this is a daily occurrence, but still! Grif needs to be shouted at more!” Sarge turns to Simmons and nods at him. Simmons looks so proud of himself that Grif is a little afraid he’s going to burst into tears. “But then I heard talks of water pressure! I knew that I had to come in here and investigate!” He shouts and places his hands on his hips.

Grif stares at Sarge like the older man grew another head. “Oh my god,” He deadpans, “This is about the fucking water pressure.” 

Sarge nods victoriously, “Of course it’s about the water pressure! Keep up, Grif.” He makes his way into the living room. He stops at the back of the couch and looks at the two men standing on the other side of it, “Lopez and I had that very same fight when we moved into this ‘ere complex. It was awful!”   
  


“How did Lopez fight with it?” Grif asks, turning to Simmons, “He’s a robot, right? Wouldn’t he rust or something?” Simmons gave his roommate a little shrug in return. 

Sarge in the background did not once halt in telling his story. It was a story about honor, about love, about victory, and most importantly, it was a story about defeating something blue. “And at the end of the day, I shouted ‘I’m going in’ to Lopez, who congratulated me on being so heroic and handsome. And then BAM,” He paused for the dramatics, “We fixed the water pressure!”

“You are heroic and handsome, sir!”

Grif wrinkles his nose, “Kissass.”

“Shut the fuck up, Grif,” Simmons hisses.

Grif brushes off Simmons’ little remarks and turns his attention back to the older man in front of him. “Okay, so you fixed your water pressure,” He crossed his arms over his chest, “You didn’t tell us how. You just talked about how you and Lopez got lost in Home Depot.” 

“Home Depot!” Sarge yells as if the store has personally wronged him. His face twists into a little displeased scowl. It stays like that for a few moments before the old man turns to Simmons and gives him a critical look. He gave a good long shake of his head. Simmons seemed to wilt. “Good golly, Simmons, go put on some clothes! We have to go to the hardware store! You can’t do that in a robe!” Sarge gave the young redhead a harsh pat - which was more like a smack - on the back. Simmons stumbled a little, thrown off balance by it.

“Yes sir!” Simmons rights himself. “I’ll go change right now, sir!” He turns to Grif and digs his bony elbow into his roommate’s general rib area. His squeaky voice drops into a whisper as he talks to the orange clad man, “You go change too. Into something decent. No holes, no stains.” 

Grif rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, “I’ll pass. I don’t really wanna spend all day in a crowded department store with Mr. Crazy and the Kissass. I’ll stay home and watch old ass reruns.”

Sarge reached across the entire couch - he actually climbed on it just a little bit - to reach out and grip Grif’s old, stained orange shirt. “You’re coming too, dirtbag!” He let Grif go and walked around to the other side of the couch. “A happy home is a happy life! A happy life is a happy man! A happy man is perfect to defeat the blues!” The old man shouts. Grif flinches away from him because of the sheer volume of his voice. Inside voices do not exist to Sarge.

“Yes sir! You are very wise and also smart!”

“That is some white wine mom bullshit. I can’t believe you just said that, Sarge,” The larger man shakes his head disapprovingly. Sarge sends him a glare that promises a threat to his safety. Grif takes a few steps away so he can put Simmons in between them.

“Go get dressed soldiers-”

“We aren’t soldiers. We’ve never been soldiers.”

“And then come back out. We’re going to...” Sarge stops, once again, for dramatic effect, “The hardware store.” 

Simmons scrambles to his room to instantly do what Sarge says. Grif complains for thirty seconds and then goes to get dressed because the old man has already made up his mind and there was no way he was getting out of it. Also because if Simmons gave Sarge free rein in their apartment it would be destroyed and they would never get their security deposit back and also they would be evicted. So Simmons put on a large maroon sweater vest over a button down and black slacks. Grif puts on an old band shirt and some sweats. They absolutely don’t look like they should be going to a hardware store for wildly different reasons.

When they walk back into their living room, Sarge is standing there in grey jeans and a red shirt that says ‘SARGE’ in all caps on the front and ‘name and rank’ on the back. Neither of the roommates know how or why their neighbor has a shirt with his name on it. He is looking at the comics in the newspaper. “Damn Garfield. He’s like Grif as a cat.”

“Did you change in our apartment?” Grif asks. He blinks at Sarge because what the fuck? Where did he even get those clothes? “Did you just call me  _ Garfield?” _

“You’re back!” Sarge shouts again. Simmons stands a little taller. Grif internally cries at how badly his back must be aching. The redhead is a serial sloucher whenever he is not around people he deems to be his ‘superiors’. “Alright, dirtbags. Let’s head out!” Sarge shoves the entire newspaper into his pockets somehow. Grif decides that maybe ignorance is bliss. If he never figures out how Sarge works, maybe he can act like Sarge never did anything like today ever.

Grif is forced to be the driver to and from the hardware store. As soon as they walk in, Sarge gets distracted and wanders off to another section of the giant department store. Sarge just leaves the two younger men looking lost at the entrance. 

Simmons gives Grif an alarmed look. The shorter man can see the anxiety crawling up his face and he knows he has to do something. He puts a hand somewhere around the middle of Simmons’ back. He tries not to think too hard about the contact. “Come on,” Grif quiets his voice so only his friend can hear him, “We need to find Sarge before he can force us to pay for the destruction of our own apartment.” 

Simmons gives a stiff nod. His head swivels around a few times as he desperately looks for where his pseudo father went. He begins to go in a random direction before Grif redirects him. He starts to walk in the new direction Grif pointed him in. “It’ll be fine,” Simmons mutters to himself, “We’ll find Sarge, get the stuff to fix our water pressure, and get out.”

Grif gives an affirmative noise as they look around. Grif wonders if they’re just missing him, like it's a Scooby-Doo-esque chase scene with the three of them. Simmons and Grif are looking around aimlessly for him, walking around the store. Grif was almost able to convince Simmons that the model toilets were actually a very public bathroom. He was very horrified until he actually thought about the fact that there was no way any of them had any water and then proceeded to be very pissed for three isles. But in retaliation Simmons almost convinced Grif to paint their living room a certain swatch of red that was more like a deep maroon. Which they couldn’t do, because it is an apartment. 

When they’ve walked through a quarter of the store, Grif decides that it isn't worth it anymore. “Simmons,” He says, dramatically leaning on a shelf filled with various plants, “I don’t think we’ll ever find Sarge. Or our way out.” Grif’s face pinches. He furrows his bushy eyebrows and his nose wrinkles and he pushes his lips together as he grimaces, “We live here now. We live at Home Depot.”

“Don’t say that,” Simmons scolds him, “We’ll be able to find him. Even if it takes hours… or days… maybe years.” He looks right past Grif, off into the distance. His eyes are unfocused for a second, but then he blinks. His eyebrows furrow for a second before they shoot up into his hairline. His bright green eyes light up happily, “Sarge!” Simmons shouts, leaving Grif in his new plant grave, “We’ve been looking everywhere for you! Where have you been?”

Sarge looks up innocently. As if he hasn’t just made Grif and Simmons’ lives hell. Grif gets up and slinks to Simmons’ side. Sarge blinks at them, like he doesn’t quite understand the elation and/or irritation they’re feeling. “I saw this beauty,” He says simply, as if that explains anything. Sarge motions to a house plant. It’s in a small pot and it's growing nicely. The plant has no flowers, only leaves. The leaves themselves are green, because plants, but the veins within the leaves are a brilliant bright red. He points at the label describing the plant. “This ‘ere says it’s called a fittonia! I think she looks like a Samatha.”

“You made us run all over Home Depot for a plant?” Grif wails frustratedly.

“It is a lovely plant, sir,” Simmons said while gingerly picking it up, “How about Grif and I buy this for you as a thanks for fixing our water pressure?” He cradles it like it’s something precious and gives Sarge a little sheepish smile.

Sarge nods like he is being sold on a business investment. “I do suppose that Samatha deserves the very best. If we didn’t get her, who knows who would! It might even be… a Blue!” He throws his hand over his eyes and shakes his head dramatically, “The horror! It's an abomination! I can’t even imagine something that horrible and despicable happening to her!” Sarge moves his hand and levels a glare at the two other people with him. “Men, we have to save her from her inevitable fate of becoming a no good stinky Blue!”

“Why would the plant become a Blue?” Grif asks but is ignored.

“Absolutely sir!” Simmons chirps in agreement, “Anything to keep from raising their numbers!” He starts to guide Sarge literally anywhere but the gardening section. “When we get back we can officially add her to the ranks of the reds. We can also fix Grif and I’s water pressure!”

Sarge laughs an over the top boisterous laugh that somehow fits him very well. “Hoo, would you boys believe I almost forgot about that? Silly me! Alright, let’s go get the things to fix your water pressure.” He heads off in another direction, nearly unprompted. 

As it turns out, they were only running around the entirety of this home improvement department store for one thing. A wrench. Which Grif is like, 100% sure Sarge has. That they could have just borrowed. Grif really hates his neighbors. So in the end, they spend about three hours in Home Depot and they leave with a wrench and a houseplant. 

When they get back to their apartment, Sarge plants Samatha on Grif and Simmons’ coffee table. “Simmons, I’m going to need a paperclip,” He says decisively. Sarge picks up the wrench and heads into their little shared bathroom. 

Simmons and Grif share a glance. “This is what you wanted, Simmons,” Grif remarks with a shake of his head. 

“Shut up, Grif,” Simmons grumbles as he quickly pulls a paperclip off of a stack of papers. “Sarge is going to fix our water pressure and I will take a shower and then everything will be fine. It’s going to be good. No! It’s going to be better than good, because after I take a shower, I’m going to make you take one,” Simmons gives him a devious smile, “And you are going to wash your hair.”

“Evil. You’re so evil,” Grif says with a laugh. Simmons gives a half-hearted shrug with one shoulder. 

“Grif! Simmons! Stop playing grab-ass out there and come help me!” 

Simmons squeaks and obediently makes his way into the bathroom. Grif lets out a large sigh. There is no way it’s a three man job. The only thing they needed for it was a wrench. Maybe it was all some sort of plot by Sarge - or God maybe - to torture Grif. That sounds plausible. Grif is the most unlucky man alive, probably.

When Grif walks into the bathroom, he sees that it is certainly not a three man job. It’s not even a two man job, really. Sarge takes the wrench to their shower head. With a few good twists it pops off. The old man inspects it and then hands it over to Simmons. He proceeds to take the paperclip and bend the shit out of it.

“Is there something wrong with our showerhead?” Simmons asks nervously. He peeks inside of it. “I’ve been showering with this. If there’s something gross inside-” He stops to have a full body shudder.

“Nonsense!” Sarge shouts as he pops out a white little disk from behind where their shower head was. “It was one of those water flow restrictors that people use to save on water! Lopez and I pried ours out ages ago!” 

Simmons lets out the biggest sigh of relief Grif has ever heard from him. “Oh God, I’m so glad there was nothing gross in there.” He hands it back to Sarge, who simply puts it back on with no fanfare.

“Why am I in here?” Grif asks impatiently. Seriously. Sarge has taken up his entire day with something that could have been done in like … thirty minutes. Tops. And he didn’t even need Grif despite his repeated insistence that the heavier man be there!

Sarge looks over his shoulder. “Well for one important reason, dirtbag!” He shouts as he turns the wrench once more and makes sure the shower head is once again secured. Grif allows Sarge to move him where he wants him. Which happens to be right beside the edge of their shower-bathtub combination. Sarge nods once, then turns on the water. Simmons grins because the water pressure is finally at a level that is even a little acceptable. 

Sarge makes eye contact with Grif. “Oh no,” Grif says, starting to back up and getting ready to run away. Far away. “Don’t you dare old man,” He hisses.

And then, almost in slow motion, Sarge grabs the shower head, and promptly moves it to spray Grif. Grif’s whole face gets soaked in water. It’s in his hair and dripping onto his shirt and clinging to his eyelashes. Sarge turns off the water and moves the showerhead back into it’s typical position.

There is a stunned silence between Grif and Simmons. Then a loud snorting laugh erupts from behind Grif. It shocks the shorter man out of his stupor. “You fuck!” He howls at Sarge, “Why would you do that? That was completely unnecessary!”

Sarge, on the other hand, looks very pleased with himself. There’s a little smirk on his dumb old man face. “How was the water dirtbag? Warm enough for ‘ya?” He chuckles a little to himself. Behind them, Simmons starts wheezing while laughing. 

“Get out,” Grif scowls and points at their door. “Thanks for nothing you crazy old freak. I hate you so much.” He begins to urge Sarge completely out of their apartment. He puts on a fake southern accent to mock him, as he pushes their senior out the door, “Go on. Don’t come back now, ‘ya hear!” And then he slams it and locks it in his face.

After a few seconds the laughter coming from their bathroom quiets down. Simmons steps out with a face that is all red in patches. He makes his way to the kitchen and downs two glasses of water before shaking his head. “I’m going to shower. Properly test the water pressure.” He then sends Grif a big large goofy nerd smile. Grif feels the tense edges of their stressful day with Sarge start to soften some.

It isn’t until Simmons is in the shower that Grif realizes that Sarge left his new plant and wrench in their apartment. Grif stares at them with contempt for far too long. “Fuck,” He hisses and pushes his head into his hands. He grabs them and heads out of his apartment. “I hate that old man. Why am I being forced to do this?”

He ignores the fact that he isn't.

Grif goes across the hall and knocks on Sarge’s door with the wrench. “Sarge! You left your garbage at our place!” He waits a couple of more seconds. “I’ll leave them in the hall if you don’t open the door!” A few more. “Samatha needs to be with the,” He stops to shiver, “Official leader of the Reds.”

The door swings open to reveal Sarge who is giving him a once over. He sees the red veined plant in Grif’s arms and takes it gently. “Oh-ho,” He coos, “I can’t believe I almost forgot you, Samatha.” He pats the leaves with more tenderness than Grif has ever seen that man have. 

The heavier man holds out the wrench for him to take. Sarge furrows his brows at him. As if he was confused for some reason. “What?” Grif asks and shakes the wrench a little. “It’s the garbage you forced Simmons and I to buy you.”

Sarge shakes his head. “Oh, you poor simple-minded Grif,” he shifts his plant to one arm and pats Grif’s shoulder, “It’s your wrench now. Yours and Simmons,” He goes to set Samatha down on a small shelf that he uses for keys and various nicknacks. “Getting tools to fix your house is just a natural part of living together. It’s part of sharing a home with someone you lo-” Sarge stops himself, eyes Grif skeptically, and then shakes his head, “With someone you care about. Keep your wrench. Maybe one day you’ll put it to good use.” He gives a low chuckle.

Grif frowns and furrows his brows. “Simmons and I don’t- We aren’t-” He lets out a sigh that makes him sound weary. He feels weary. Grif wants to go home and bask in Simmons’ warmth and watch dumb movies with him and bicker stupidly. “Simmons and I aren’t like that. We’re friends.”

Sarge just shakes his head at him. “I just don’t understand,” He mutters to himself. He then turns to Grif, the older man’s dark brown eyes make him a little nervous. “I may be old, but I’m not blind. It’s fine. It’s your lives and you should do what’cha like with ‘em, goddammit.” He grimaces to himself, shakes it off, and then he shuts the door in Grif’s face. 

Grif stands dazed for a few seconds. Sarge knowing about Grif’s giant crush on Simmons isn’t ideal, but it could be worse. He could be telling Simmons. Which, Grif doesn’t actually put past Sarge. His face twists into a frown. It can’t be that bad. He can’t be that obvious. Sarge is deceptively perceptive so maybe it was only him. Yeah- that was probably it. Sarge could just tell because he’s  _ Sarge _ and he might be crazy and old but he’s the closest thing to a dad Grif and Simmons have ever had-

“Grif?” Simmons asks with his head poking out of their front door. “What are you doing?” He smiles at him. Grif smiles back.

“Sarge left Samatha here. And the wrench, but he pawned it off on us,” He heads back inside their apartment. Quietly, he puts the wrench under their kitchen sink. “He started talking about crazy bullshit- You know how Sarge is.”

Simmons makes a little ‘mmhmm’ of acknowledgement and puts a hand on Grif’s shoulder. “Do you wanna just hang out here? I can, uh, make popcorn while you’re in the shower,” He sends Grif a shy little smile. He has to know Grif’s answer already, the larger man has no idea why he’s so shy about it every time. It makes Grif’s heart flutter. “We can get some blankets and watch dumb, shitty movies.”

Grif laughs a little at his roommate. “Simmons,” He says in that relaxed way he talks, “You read my mind.”

On his way out the door to work the next day, Grif notices that their door isn’t sitting how it normally does in the doorframe. It takes around thirty seconds for Grif to realize that it was because Sarge had broken into their apartment. He groans, realizing that as soon as he gets off work he’s going to have to spend another day with his shitty not-dad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love sarge so much. but more than anything else, i love sarge reluctantly being the dad of red team


	3. Whine and Cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No! I’ll probably die of something natural like … Snakes… Yeah! Snakes are gonna eat me.” Simmons pauses and then tacks on a, “Whole!”
> 
> Sarge slaps Simmons on the back hard enough to make him waver, “It’s alright, soldier! We won’t let you die tragically of a broken heart from a no-good lazybones like Grif! It would just be unacceptable!” Sarge shakes his head, “Not an honorable way to die at all.”
> 
> “I wouldn’t die of a broken heart…” Simmons trails off sadly. 

For the Reds, there were two times a month that they all knew too well: Wine and cheese hour. Which would then become wine and cheese night after Donut and Doc had decided that there was too much juicy apartment gossip to talk about for just one hour. 

It was a day all other Reds absolutely dreaded. Or Grif and Simmons did, at least. Sarge secretly liked the wine and the social interaction and Lopez just sat there silently. Donut and Sarge would shit talk the blues while Doc would smile politely and remind them that technically, he is on neither side. Grif would snort and down a glass of wine and sit with Simmons until they got wine-drunk or until Donut started making even more frequent innuendoes. Whichever came first. 

Grif absolutely hated wine and cheese hour slash night. It was pointless. He would rather be at home with Simmons getting drunk on their own beer than in Donut’s apartment drinking wine he hates. But this time ... One of their guests was unexpected. 

Sitting in the middle of Donut and Doc’s living room was one Locus. Grif feels thrilled and a little nervous at the same time. His friend is just sitting there on Doc’s little loveseat holding a glass of white wine. Doc and Donut share a glance, and then Donut shares the same one with Sarge. Who then passes it to Simmons. Who would look at Grif, but Grif is sitting by Locus and talking amicably. 

“And then that guy at work that sucks - Gene - he said the prequels were better! Isn’t that an outrage?” Grif waits just long enough for Locus to nod and then continues, “What do you think about the prequels? Do you like them more than the original trilogy? What about the new trilogy? Have you seen all the Star Wars movies? What do you think about the Han Solo spin-off with Childish Gambino? Personally I didn’t like it.” He takes a brief sip of his wine, “Simmons and I like to watch them together so I’ve seen them like a hundred and ten times. Probably. Aren’t best friends great? Do you have a favorite movie? Oh, yeah! Why are you here right now, dude? This isn’t really your scene.”

Locus shifts minutely and brings his glass of wine to his lips, “You said that this was something the Reds did often and I simply wanted to investigate. Since you seem to insist that I would be a Red if given an alignment. Although, I’m not sure I want any part in your made up rivalry. Probably. Almost certainly.” He then takes a long sip from his glass like that would hide whatever expression he - or anyone else - made in response to his comment.

Grif nods, like that made perfect sense. “Oh! Duh, of course! That makes perfect sense. You wanna know what else is perfect? Cookies. I seriously have never met someone who doesn’t like cookies! What kind of monster doesn’t like cookies? My favorite is peanut butter, but Simmons likes oatmeal raisin. I feel like that should be a crime but he tries to justify it for health reasons, but if you’re eating a cookie you’re already not being healthy! Speaking of healthy, you know what sucks? Running.” And he just continues to ramble to the larger man sitting beside him.

Simmons shuffles a little closer to Sarge. “Why is he only like this around Locus?” Simmons hisses, almost jealously. He then lets out a long sigh, “He isn’t like this around anyone else. Not even me,” He pauses, “Not that it matters! Not that I want him to talk to me like that…” His voice is an octave higher than his normal pitch and he is nervously fiddling with his glass of red wine. “He’s just … never this talkative.”

Sarge lets out a grunt and motions for Donut to join their little Red Whispering Time. “Men! We have to put a stop to this! Grif is fraternizing with a …” The older man pauses, seemingly at a loss for words, “What is he again? He’s not a blue …”

“Does he have an alignment?” Donut asks while tilting his head, “Could we claim him for the Reds? We haven’t gotten a new member in forever!” He chirps happily. He then turns back to the two men who were talking. “But this is strange. I don’t like this,” He confirms.

Simmons throws a hand over his eyes to block his vision. “Oh god,” He whines miserably, “What if they fall in love and Grif leaves and moves out and then I’m all alone!” He moves a thin hand to tangle itself in his bright red hair, “I’ll probably die all lonely and gross and alone. And dead!”

“Sarge,” Donut starts empathetically, “Simmons is going to die of a broken heart! We can’t let that happen!” He pumped his fists in the air. With a determined look in his eye he says, probably a little louder than intended, “We have to put a stop to this huge, massive, just like really, really big problem!” 

Doc looked over a little from where he had been hovering anxiously by the cheese, but he didn’t join because he’s not officially a member of the red team. He looks like he wants to, though, because the only other people in the room are Locus, who he is afraid of, and Grif, who he has an odd rivalry with that neither party cares to put a lot of effort into.

“No! I’ll probably die of something natural like … Snakes… Yeah! Snakes are gonna eat me.” Simmons pauses and then tacks on a, “Whole!”

Sarge slaps Simmons on the back hard enough to make him waver, “It’s alright, soldier! We won’t let you die tragically of a broken heart from a no-good lazybones like Grif! It would just be unacceptable!” Sarge shakes his head, “Not an honorable way to die at all.”   
  


“I wouldn’t die of a broken heart…” Simmons trails off sadly. 

“Are you guys talking about death?” Doc asks, deciding that it would be worth it to not hover awkwardly and joining in suddenly. “I’m a medic! I can make you a little more comfortable while you’re dying.” He gave a sheepish, lopsided smile. “Like I can give you some painkillers, if you want. Morphine can be very effective for all things. Or aloe vera!” He fidgets with a cracker that has a gross brand of vegan cheese lumped on top. “Can I join whatever you guys are talking about? It’s just … Grif is being kind of intimidating, and I don’t think he likes me all that much anyways. So… I don’t really want to get involved with that, and I was getting kinda lonely.”

There was a chorus of ‘of course’ ‘no way’ and a breathy ‘ehhhhhhhh’. Doc takes that as an invitation to stay and plants himself beside Donut. 

Donut plants a hand on his arm and looks at his boyfriend right in the eyes. “Simmons isn’t dying of something that painkillers could help. He’s gonna die of a broken heart because Grif and Locus are getting along so well he’s afraid that they’re going to fall in love and leave him behind.” Donut gives an exaggerated sniff. “It’s so sad. It’s gonna make me cry. He rambles on about how he has a crush on Grif so often. It’s a little sad to see him go like this. But pretty fitting, I think.”

“I don’t ramble on about that!” Simmons hisses at Donut. “I told you and Sarge and Lopez that in confidence!”

“You told us that in confidence over and over again,” Donut sniffles. 

“Oh no!” Doc leans toward Donut and puts a hand comfortingly on his arm. He rubs his boyfriend’s arm as he gently coos at him, “Please don’t cry!”

Sarge claps his hands together, getting all of their attention. “Reds! And Doc,” Doc smiles, grateful that he is being acknowledged and accepted, “We absolutely have to put a stop to this!” The old man whisper-shouts, “This would completely change the Reds forever! And we don’t change! We’re the comedic relief characters! The fun easy ones you can always count on after a hard day.”

“What?” Simmons asks.

“You’re right!” Donut agrees. 

“Idiotas,” Lopez mutters.

“Why is he invited to wine and cheese hour?” Simmons asks suddenly, “He can’t drink wine or eat cheese.”

“The gossip, Simmons!”

“None of us know Spanish!”

Thus the Reds get thrown off track on their plan making. Locus watches them for a few seconds before interrupting whatever topic Grif was going on about at that second. “Grif,” He says, bluntly. “I think something is going on with your team.”

“Oh those guys?” Grif looks over at them and then back to Locus. He does this about three times before he speaks again. “They seem pretty normal to me. They’re always yelling and doing things like that, those rascals.” Affection colors his tone for just a moment, before he blinks in confusion and turns to Locus, “Why? Do you think something is going on?” He leans a little bit closer. There's a miserable whine from behind Grif that he ignores, “Do you think there’s something wrong with Simmons? He’d tell me, right? Because we’re best friends and he trusts me? Oh, God, Locus, what if he-”

Locus just eyes Grif a little. He shakes his head and gently puts a hand on Grif’s shoulder. Another, louder whine sounds outs. It is ignored by Grif and Locus but it’s met with an outraged cry from a different person. “I think… I think that they’re under the impression we are romantically intertwined.” 

Grif leaned away from him. The heavier man looked over Locus a couple of times over. “Us?” He asks incredulously. “You’re like, way out of my league dude!”

“Okay,” Locus exhales, “That’s not the point-”

“Plus it’d be weird, right?” Grif asks and scrunches up his nose. He flicks his wrist between them. “Us? I mean I like you,” A loud, sad gasp from behind them, “In a friendly way! You’re a good buddy - er. friend - man,” A quiet, bashful, ‘oh’ from the eavesdroppers, “But there’s nothing between us. ... You know that right?”

Locus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Grif, I am very well aware that both of our feelings are completely platonic.”

“Don’t know what that means,” Grif says with a shrug, “I hope that doesn’t mean something like. More than we are. I’m pretty happy with our friendship right now, dude.”

Locus nods, “Our feelings are completely the same. There’s no need to drag this out-”

Grif leans away a little, “I know this might be hard for you to hear but there’s just no spark.” He sets a hand very gently on his bicep and gives it three chaste pats. Locus looks a little bit like he wants to burn the world and then God. He sits there silently. “I don’t wanna like, hurt you or anything, but I just don’t think it would work between us. Plus there is that thing that I have going on… You know. I’ve told you about it. I don’t think I could just ignore that.”

“Are you rejecting me?” Locus furrows his eyebrows a little. “Grif, I’m not trying to pursue you. I don’t want that. I don’t want a romantic relationship with you.”

“Oh!” Grif hesitates, “That’s great! No awkward rejections!”

Simmons, from the little group of Reds huffs a little. “I can’t believe he wouldn’t want that. I just don’t get it. Grif if fine. Totally romanceable.” Simmons crosses his arms. It takes around thirty seconds, but he realizes what he said and begins to turn bright red in blotchy splotches. “I mean! Like, uh - Grif is a totally normal amount of romanceable! I don’t find him more or less romanceable than anyone else would find him!” He screws his eyes shut, “Donut stop looking at me like that!”

Donut actually wasn’t even looking at Simmons, and instead had his gaze still fixed on Grif and Locus. After Simmons speaks, he glances at him from the corner of his eye. He gives a loud, fond sigh and says,“Young love.” He then, daintily, takes a sip of wine.

“We’re the same age, Donut,” Simmons hisses. 

“Simmons,” Locus’ deep voice cuts through the room. The word rattles around Simmons’ brain like a bullet as he stands there completely frozen and terrified.

“I’m going to die.” Simmons whispers.

“Can we talk?” Locus deadpans. He motions exaggeratedly to Doc and Donut’s empty kitchen. “It will just take a second.” He stands up from the loveseat he was sitting at with Grif and starts moving in there. 

“You guys should start writing my obituary. I can give you a head start,” Simmons sticks his long bony arms out in front of him and gestures wider with every word he says, “Super smart. Hard worker. Wonderful son. Loved by all.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate,” Sarge says to Donut, who shakes his head disapprovingly. They both take long sips of wine while giving the tall redhead the side eye. 

“Fuck you, Donut.”

“Sarge said it!”

“Fuck you, Donut.”

Simmons shuffles to the kitchen. He kinda looks like a humanized maroon slime that was rolled into a long, thin tube that can only radiate misery and anxiety. He steps into the kitchen and downs an entire cup of wine. “Oh,” He says suddenly, “That was gross. I shouldn’t have done that. Oh, ew, yuck.”

“I do not like Grif romantically,” Locus points out bluntly. Simmons nearly chokes on the water he is trying to drink. “I just… thought you should know that there is nothing going on between us.” He watches as Simmons clutches his hands around a wine glass filled with water. His wide green eyes flicker to the hispanic man and back again. “We’re friends. That is all. Trust me, I don’t want a relationship with him.”

Simmons’ squashes his lips together firmly. “I mean, okay. I don’t know why you’re telling me this.” He sets the glass down on the table. “But I don’t know why you’re so hasty to debunk the fact that you like him. Sure, he’s awful, and a slob, and the worst but,” Simmons trails off, takes a deep breath, “He’s not… unlikeable.”

Locus’ eyes widen and he blinks a few times. He’s a little stunned. “I just … I thought there was something going on between you two. So, I figured you should be in the know.”

“What?!” Simmons yells and his voice cracks on it. He realizes he was a little too loud and lowers his voice. “What?” He asks, quieter but just as outraged. “You thought that- Grif and I- Me and Grif? What? Why? I don’t- There’s not-” Simmons runs his hands through his short hair. “Nothing is going on! Nothing at all!” He looks away and whispers, “This is how I die. I’m gonna die.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Simmons.”

“I’m going to die.”

“Nice chat.” Locus says, moving away from him. “I just … wanted you to know that nothing is going on between me and Grif. That’s all.” 

As the quiet man starts to move back into the living room, Simmons clears his throat. “Even if there isn’t anything going on between you two, why does he treat you so differently?” Simmons makes a forlorn face and glances over at the kitchen tiles. “He talks to you. Like really, actually talks to you. Why doesn’t he talk to me like that? We’ve been best friends for years but he still hasn’t-” He falters, tries for different words, “He’s never-”

Locus sets a strong hand on his shoulder, effectively cutting him off. “I’m not sure myself, Simmons.” He says and his usually stoic voice is laced just slightly with a little bit of sympathy. “It started with him just venting to me because he knew I wouldn’t tell others or make fun of him.”

“I wouldn’t make fun of him!” Simmons cries out in outrage. Then he realizes that maybe he was a bit too loud and tries again. “I wouldn’t make fun of him,” He says again, and if he sounds a bit more like a pouting child, that is Simmons’ business. “I know when to take things seriously. I want to be able to be there for him, but he never opens up!” The lanky man crosses his arms over his chest.

Locus looks at him for a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I don’t have all the answers,” He takes a step away from Simmons, more toward the door, “You could talk to him yourself. Not talking to people you care about is unhealthy and could lead to even more misunderstandings,” His face suddenly contorted into what looked like a little grimace. “Or worse.”

With those words hanging ominous in the air, Locus left to rejoin Grif on the couch where they were seated. His roommate instantly started talking about nonsense that didn’t matter to him. Simmons watches them interact for a few seconds. Grif smiles and rambles and Locus listens. The redhead frowns a little. “I really hope there is nothing going on between them.”

“I don’t think there is,” Doc seems to materialize out of thin air just to say that... And also to humbly offer, “Vegan cheese?”

“Doc! You can’t sneak up on people like that! And no, that stuff is gross!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually meant to put this chapter up like way earlier in the week! but i uh, got distracted by mental illness so i kept forgetting. but here it is!


	4. Sibling Arrivalries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Said Blue waves off all of their criticism, no matter how valid it might be. He walks a little further into their apartment. Simmons glares at him, but Grif just watches passively. “So, Junior’s birthday is next month and I wanted to throw him a surprise party. Because I’m a cool dad like that,” Tucker smiles a soft little smile at the mention of his son. "So I was looking online for some party planning companies. Because you can only turn five once, you know? I want to make it special,” Tucker shrugs a bit and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He grins just a little bit. “I found one, she’s really highly rated. She doesn’t normally do birthday parties, but she’s looking to branch out into them because there’s some real money to be had there and,” He pauses. Looks Grif in the eyes. “She’s hot. Like really pretty. Like I would sit her down and make her a lasagna hot.”

“Okay, so you’ve made your point about red meat - which I personally think is dumb, but we’re moving on - why not eggs? What’s wrong with eggs?” Grif asks, while waving a spatula in the air. Simmons is at his side, crossing his arms and watching him cook. Grif doesn’t really cook for anyone except Simmons and his little sister, Kaikaina. In a way, he’s grateful Simmons is a mess in the kitchen. When they first started living together, Simmons made an unspiced white something and called it a meal. Grif decided at that moment that someone needed to take care of him, and that buck had been passed to him. Since then, Grif has taken to cooking for his picky vegan friend. If he didn’t have to cook for Simmons, Grif probably wouldn’t even cook for himself. So in a way he’s grateful.

“The red meat point is not dumb! Ugh.” Simmons huffed out an annoyed little breath of air. Grif felt it against his temple. It made him smile just a tiny bit. “I don’t have to explain every aspect of veganism to you. Again.” His roommate drummed his long fingers against his own arm for a moment before letting out a frustrated little noise. “Actually, it’s gonna bother me if I don’t. Number one-”

“Foods ready,” The larger man currently dressed in orange says and slides all the food on their respective plates. He hands the one that was absent of any animal products to the man in front of him, and took his own to their old, wobbly, thrifted table that sat lovingly in the center of their little kitchen. It has a little succulent in the center of it. It’s one of the plants that Grif has decided to take under his wing. They remind him of his home; lush, green, bright, lively. The city he lives in now is very grey, nothing like Honolulu. 

Simmons gives a big inhale. He swallows his pride exaggeratedly. He acts like it is a huge burden, but in reality it is all for show. Neither of them bring it up. “Thank you,” He grits out and takes his spot across from Grif. 

It’s domestic and it is nice. Simmons takes a few bites and then wraps his hand around a warm mug of coffee he brewed for himself. He looks out of a nearby window and lets out a little sigh. It wasn’t weary but rather it sounds content. He holds on tight to his favorite maroon mug and drinks his coffee that is nearly black but with a splash of almond milk. Because despite Simmons' insistence, not even he can drink his coffee black.. “Do you think it’s going to be cold today?” He asks with a dreamy lilt to his voice. 

In reality, it doesn’t matter if it’s going to be cold outside. Simmons likes to bundle up in layer. With jackets, coats, mittens, scarves. He likes to pile under blankets and drink hot drinks and watch the snow fall from inside. He says he has poor circulation, and that is part of it, but Grif thinks he just likes the feeling of being bundled and warm and safe. And also not sweating.

“‘Dunno. You could check the weather app,” Grif says around a mouthful of eggs. He spears some more on his fork and begins to bring them to his mouth when he sees his best friend staring at him with a disgusted expression. “What?”

Simmons scoffs a little and moves the food around on his own plate lethargically. “Mouth closed when you’re eating. Seriously, it’s gross,” He pokes something weakly onto his fork, “Don’t give me that look! I don’t like seeing half-chewed bacon every morning!”

Grif shoves the food in his mouth and exaggeratedly chews and swallows. “Happy?” Simmons doesn’t look happy, though, so Grif gives a noncommittal shrug, “You asked me a question and I answered it. Don’t know why you’re so upset, dude.”

“You didn’t even give me an answer! You just said to check my phone, basically!” 

“It’s good advice, right?” Grif shrugged a little and leaned back in his chair. Simmons watched him to make sure he keeps all four chair legs on the ground and doesn’t prop himself up on two. “Shouldn’t you value the opinion of weathermen more than me? What are they called?” He brings a strip of bacon to his mouth. Chews. Speaks with the food still in his mouth, “Meteorites?” 

Simmons stares blankly at him for a second. “What the fuck?” He asks, leaning a little close, “Obviously not meteorites! Meteorologists!” He has one hand down on the table, the other is tightly gripping his fork. He kinda reminds Grif of a cat who got their fur ruffled the wrong way, who is baring their fangs and prepping for a bite that isn’t going to come.

Grif’s playing this up for Simmons. They both know it - probably - but neither of them will admit it. It’s locked into the ‘box of things Grif and Simmons don’t talk about’ along with many other things. For Simmons, admitting that he knows would be admitting that he enjoys playing into these antics. He loves it, but he wants to pretend that he is above it all. For Grif, it means that he’s capable of more than what people expect of him. Which is nothing. Which is convenient because he doesn’t want others to rely on him. “Yeah. The people who dedicate themselves to doing something people can do by just going outside for five minutes.”

“That isn’t how it works at all- Grif!”

They’re ready to settle into their morning routine when they hear a knock at the door. There’s a second where calm brown eyes met a terrified green. Simmons looks down at his pajamas, a plaid set of comfortable pants and a t-shirt that has a CoolMathGames logo on it. He then looks at Grif, who doesn’t look much better in a hoodie that he threw on before he started cooking and a pair of sweatpants. But the difference is, Grif doesn’t give a shit what others think of him. So he goes to open the door. He hopes that it’s no one from the building. He also hopes that it’s not a stranger. Maybe someone ding-dong-ditched them. 

The knockee knocks again, this time when Grif is right in front of the door. “Jesus,” Grif curses, unlocking the door, “Can you hold your horses, dude? Give me a second.”

When he swings the door open, he sees Tucker. The trim man is dressed pretty nicely and stylishly but in a way that still reads as casual. Grif’s eyes are drawn to a denim jacket with white faux fur on the inside. It must be cold outside. Simmons would probably be happy to hear that. He would probably wear a jacket even if it wasn’t cold. Grif has seen Simmons in jackets when it was super hot out before. Like summer temperatures hot. It was so ridiculous, but his best friend refused to take it off even when he was sweating. All because Grif had picked on him about it a little. 

“Uh,” Tucker’s voice snaps him back into reality. The man in front of him is waving one of his hands in his face and Grif’s a little embarrassed to say that he just noticed it. “Earth to Grif? You in there, man? Do I need to get Simmons to do CPR?”

Grif gives a little laugh before he can help himself. “I’m the one that’s certified,” He remarks. Distantly, he remembers giving Sarge CPR for a head wound. He still doesn’t know how that old man is alive. Both Tucker and Grif ignore Simmons' little protest of ‘You said you’d teach me’. Grif levels a stoic glare at his friend, “But no, there’s no one here.” He shuts the door before Tucker can get a word in edgewise or a foot in the doorframe.

There’s an offended sputtering on the other side of the door, along with a loud ‘what the fuck’. After some knocking - which was really more like banging - the door swings open again. Grif still stands at the door, arms crossed over his orange hoodie. Tucker swiftly steps into the apartment before either Grif or Simmons could kick him out again. “You Reds are such assholes,” He groans miserably, “I came here to ask for a favor.” 

“Sorry, but we don’t typically do favors for people that break into our apartment. Or Blues,” Simmons comes up behind Grif. Without looking at him, Grif knows that Simmons has his arms crossed and a little self-satisfied smile on his face. Simmons is being an ass to Tucker, but they don’t really like each other. At all. Tucker is Simmons’ least favorite Blue, which includes Wash. Who threatened bodily harm against Lopez and Donut right in front of him.

The reason they don’t like each other is stupid. And considering the entire Red vs. Blue thing in general is stupid, their particular rivalry was extremely dumb. When they first met Tucker, the Blue deemed that Grif was cool enough to hang out with. He then promptly deemed Simmons wasn’t, and Simmons has never forgiven him for it.

Tucker lets out another groan. “Grif, I don’t need your boyfriend’s snark right now! Simmons, this is why you aren’t cool enough to hang out with.”

“I’m- we’re not dating!” Simmons squeaks.

“You did kinda break into our apartment,” Grif points out, “And you are a Blue.”

"Why do people keep breaking in? It's not an open door policy." Simmons huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. He sticks his thin bottom lip out and pouts.

Said Blue waves off all of their criticism, no matter how valid it might be. He walks a little further into their apartment. Simmons glares at him, but Grif just watches passively. “So, Junior’s birthday is next month and I wanted to throw him a surprise party. Because I’m a cool dad like that,” Tucker smiles a soft little smile at the mention of his son. 

Simmons' own expression softens - he may hate Tucker but he admires how much effort he puts into being a good father. “I always wanted a surprise party,” He notes, just barely loud enough for Grif to hear it. His roommate probably didn’t mean for him to. Grif files it away as something he can do next April when his birthday rolls around. 

“So I was looking online for some party planning companies. Because you can only turn five once, you know? I want to make it special,” Tucker shrugs a bit and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He grins just a little bit. “I found one, she’s really highly rated. She doesn’t normally do birthday parties, but she’s looking to branch out into them because there’s some real money to be had there and,” He pauses. Looks Grif in the eyes. “She’s hot. Like really pretty. Like I would sit her down and make her a lasagna hot.”

“Stouffer's frozen lasagna,” Simmons mutters.

Tucker glares at him. His excited grin falls into an unimpressed glare. “There’s nothing wrong with Stouffer’s, dude. It’s good and it’s not that expensive. As a single dad who doesn’t know how to cook, it gets the job done pretty well,” He nods, “Plus aren’t you like, allergic to meat or something?”

Grif begins to howl with laughter as Simmons stands there, shellshocked. “That’s not-” Simmons starts. He clenches a fist, lets it go, takes a deep breath. “That’s not what vegan means,” He says through gritted teeth, “At all!”

Tucker waves Simmons off and ignores the offended noise the redhead makes in return. “So, I was just wondering if you guys could watch Junior while I talk to her? I would talk to my usual guy, but I hate him. I hate him so much. He’s worse than Simmons.”

“Oh,” Grif says quietly. He turns his head to the left to see Simmons turn his head to the right. They make eye contact for a second, both of their expressions much softer than they would usually be. It’s not that they don’t like kids. For Grif, in fact, it’s the opposite. He loves children. He would love to have children and a family. It just seems like it’s really far away right now. Grif wonders if Simmons feels the same way. 

“Yeah,” Simmons starts, turning back to the Blue standing in their living room. “Yeah, we can watch him-”

The door bursts open. All three men freeze in the living room. Simmons’ hands fly to Grif’s orange hoodie and twist themselves inside of it. Grif’s own hands wrap around Simmons’ CoolMathGames shirt. Tucker tries to hide a little behind the Reds that are holding each other. 

“Dex!” A feminine voice calls out, “Hey, bitch! Guess who came to visit you and your boyfriend!”

“We’re not dating!” Simmons yells, too loud and an octave too high. “And we just fixed that door! We’re going to have to get Sarge to help us again.”

“Jesus Christ, Kai!” Grif screams and lets go of Simmons, who doesn’t let go of him yet, “What have I told you about knocking? You can’t just barge in here!” He huffs a little. “You almost gave Simmons a heart attack.”

“No she didn’t- Shut up Grif!”

Kai practically bounces into their living room. She ignores Tucker entirely. “Shut up and hug me, bitch!” She chirps happily. Simmons quickly pulls his hands away from Grif, which is good because if he was a few seconds slower his hands would have been caught in the bear hug that Kaikaina gives Grif. Slowly, Dexter returns the hug, wrapping his arms much more tentatively around his baby sister. 

Simmons was only spared for a few seconds until the siblings broke apart and Kai turned her sights onto the poor terrified redhead. “No, no, no, no-” Simmons says quickly, trying to scramble away from her, “Kai, don’t! Grif, help!” The lanky man nearly trips over his feet trying to hide behind Grif, and Grif has to do everything in his power to keep from laughing. 

“Come on, Simmons,” Kai whines, dragging out the last ‘s’ in his name, “We’re like family! And family hugs!” She puts her hands on her hips and sticks out her tongue like a child. Simmons, now from the safety of behind Grif, watches her. His hands are perched lightly on his roommate’s shoulders. It’s light and gentle and kept that way purposefully in order to not hurt Grif by pushing off of him in the case of Kai deciding to chase him around again.

Grif shrugs and pats one of Simmons’ hands. Simmons huffs a bit, but doesn’t move. “You know he’s terrified of women. It’s just how he was built.”

Kai throws her head back. She lets out another little whine before moving her head again to look at them. “But he’s known me since you guys were freshmen in college! We’ve known each other forever. I’m not even that scary!” She holds open her arms. Grif gives her a once over and takes a look at her yellow crop top and jeans. It’s probably too cold to be wearing that but she’s warm blooded, “See? I’m super friendly and sweet!” 

“Grif and Simmons have known each other that long?” Tucker asks and then does a low whistle, “Damn you guys have known each other forever!” He turns to Kai, and a smirk plays on his lips. “Have they been in love the whole time? They’re sure as hell in love now.”

Kai distractedly agrees. “Oh yeah! They’ve been in love forever. I’m not one to believe in soulmates, but if I did, I think those two would be each other’s soulmate.” She then pauses. Almost comically slow, she turns to Tucker, like she is just noticing him. She speaks before Simmons can get any protest of ‘Grif and I aren’t in love’ out of his mouth. “Who’s this guy?” She asks and points at him. She gives him a critical glance and then shrugs. “Kaikaina Grif!” She extends her hand toward Tucker, “Party planner extraordinaire and part-time real estate agent!” 

Tucker shakes it, “Well hey baby-” He pauses. His movement even stalls. Kai thinks it's some new weird way to try holding her hand and quickly pulls it back. She shoots Grif a glance that screams ‘what a weirdo’ without her even having to open her mouth. ”Wait, are you here to plan a kids birthday party? Because I hired a party planner to help me.”

Kai perks up instantly. “Oh yeah! I was hired for that! What a coincidence! I was just visiting my brother and brother-in-law before I headed over there!” She gives a big beaming smile to Grif and Simmons.

“Brother-in-law means we’re married! We aren’t! We aren’t even together, Kai! And we certainly aren’t  _ soulmates!” _

“So that means that you should be doing this in Tucker’s apartment, and not here,” Grif points out and raises one of his bushy eyebrows. He tilts his head back a little so he can see Simmons’ flustered face. “And so you guys can stop torturing Simmons. He hasn’t even had a full cup of coffee yet.”

“Doesn’t he prefer tea?” Kai asks innocently.

“Only losers prefer tea,” Tucker says and sticks out his tongue at Simmons. The tall man seethes from behind the safety of Grif. “But how would you know that?” Tucker directs to Kai.

“Dex talks about Simmons a lot!”

“Okay,” Grif blurts loudly. He moves away from Simmons and starts pushing Kai and Tucker out of his apartment. “I’m not doing this right now. You two can go plan Junior’s surprise party. Tucker, we can still babysit if you want, but you can’t stay here any longer.” He huffs. And then, a little softer to his sister, “Kai, you can come back when you’re done. I’ll whip something up for you.”

Kai gasps a little excitedly. She claps as she is moved across the room by her brother. “I did forget to eat breakfast! I was just so busy! I had to leave my hookups place, go home, shower, get ready to come here, come here, talk to you and Simmons-”

“You don’t have to illustrate your whole day,” Grif interrupts her. “Just. Come back when you’re done. I’ll make sure you get a real meal in you before you go home.”

Kai and Grif make plans to eat dinner together. Tucker tries to invite himself, but Simmons shuts that down very quickly. When all is said and done, Grif and Simmons are both leaning against their front door. Simmons sinks to the floor and Grif follows.

Simmons lets out a little laugh, pressing his head onto Grif’s shoulder, “Kai is as exhausting as ever.” He brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. Grif watches his slender fingers dig into the soft material of his pajama pants. He wonders what it would be like to hold his hands. “I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

Grif hums a little. He brushes some loose curly dark brown hair behind his ear. “‘Dunno,” He remarks, “I don’t know who I’d be without her around.”

Grif can feel his best friend’s eyes on him before he even turns to look at him. The heavier man can’t figure out the meaning behind it. “I’m glad she’s around. I’m glad you’re you,” And he says it casually, if not for how it’s whispered. Like if it was any louder something would come down and smite them. Simmons pulls himself to his feet. “We should probably finish breakfast,” Simmons helps Grif up, and only grumbles a little bit, “It’s definitely cold by now.”

“Cold breakfast is better than no breakfast,” The larger man sighs wistfully, “All of those shenanigans made me so hungry I feel like I could eat a horse.” Grif groans and leans onto Simmons as the taller tries to corral them both into another part of their living quarters. 

“With you, I’m worried that’s not a figure of speech.”

“That’s a figure of speech?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Simmons says and gently shoves Grif off of him. He uses his stupidly long legs to his advantage and takes the lead in front of his shorter roommate, going and sitting at their table first. With a grimace, he downs the rest of the coffee in his cup. 

Grif follows him into their kitchen and ignores the way his heart is beating faster than normal in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the original chapter was called coolmathgames simmons and both my beta and i got emotionally attached to that chapter title. so coming up with a chapter title that was not coolmathgames simmons was very hard.


	5. the college au this isnt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other people in their dorm hall gave them two months. They ended up lasting much longer than two months. For a little while, it was hellish. They couldn’t get along about anything and Grif had a hard time sleeping at night because of Simmons’ awful habit of studying until odd hours of the morning. They couldn’t do anything without it being nearly explosive, but it got better over time. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! a quick warning before this chapter starts! this chapter deals kinda in depth with some mental health issues so if that isnt ur speed then we'll be back to normal funny chapter next week!

Dick Simmons was not a person Dexter Grif thought he’d ever get along with. It wasn’t that he thought badly of Simmons! They were just opposites. Simmons was high strung and very micromanaging. Grif liked to take things easy and calm. Simmons begged to be taken seriously, to be seen as super smart and super competent. Grif purposely misled others into thinking he is less capable than he actually is. Simmons gave one hundred and ten percent in everything he did, and Grif consistently gave nothing. 

They even looked like opposites. Simmons was tall and long and lanky. Hell, even his fingers were long! Long and very precise and heavily freckled. Grif was short and round and soft.. His fingers were short and squared at the end. Simmons had short and thin bright red hair that was usually very well-maintained. Grif had long and thick black hair that was very greasy and gross and he usually kept it in a bun so he wouldn’t have to deal with actually caring for it. Every place where Grif was soft and calm, Simmons was angry and sharp. 

Others around them didn’t think they’d get along either, especially not after the huge fight they had on their very first day of being dormmates in college. It ended with Simmons sitting out in the hallways, head in his hands, saying that he couldn’t do this and that he should just go home. Grif eventually went out there to offer him something to eat. It was a very Grif-like olive branch. Simmons recognized that, and they ended up sitting together while Simmons silently ate a granola bar. It ended with a much more lighthearted argument about whether or not granola is actually good (Grif thinks it isn’t, but it hasn’t ever stopped him from eating it). Grif didn’t really blame outsiders for thinking they wouldn’t ever get along. 

The other people in their dorm hall gave them two months. They ended up lasting much longer than two months. For a little while, it was hellish. They couldn’t get along about anything and Grif had a hard time sleeping at night because of Simmons’ awful habit of studying until odd hours of the morning. They couldn’t do anything without it being nearly explosive, but it got better over time. Eventually.

It probably started when Grif was playing some rock without his headphones on for once. He half expected it to be another fight, but Simmons just gave him a thoughtful look. His face was all pinched together, with his thin eyebrows furrowed together and his thin lips squashed into almost nothing. The redhead had stopped scribbling something down on a piece of paper and was now just staring into his lap and listening. 

Grif was laying on his stomach in his bed and he was drowsy at the time, so it took a couple of songs before he noticed Simmons’ expression. He propped one of his hands up against his face and watched him for a bit before asking, “You good?”

Startled by his dormmate existing in the same space as him, Simmons dropped his pencil and whipped his head to look at the larger man like he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Grif watched the pencil roll around on his stationary for a moment before he looked him in the eye. “What?” Simmons asked. His voice cracked on the word and it let Grif know that the embarrassed, lanky man was absolutely scandalized at being caught listening to music.

“Just asked if you were good,” Grif remarked and rolled over onto his back, “Didn’t mean to scare you like that.” He let his long hair fan out against his pillows. The bed he was on was warm and the music was nice and he had grown accustomed to the sound of Simmons’ working while he slacked off. He was honestly about to fall asleep before Simmons responded to him.

There was a long pause and then the sound of a throat clearing. “What was that band? I’ve, uh, never heard them before,” Simmons looked at him from the corner of his eyes. Grif registered that the other guy looked vaguely embarrassed. 

“Trocadero,” Grif answered. And he didn’t press Simmons for more or act like he was committing a grave sin for not knowing a band Grif liked. Grif always found elists like that to be annoying. He wouldn’t doubt it if Simmons was one. Grif could picture it, Simmons bragging about having a great music taste, saying others just wouldn’t get it.

Simmons nodded and picked back up his pencil, “My father didn’t let me listen to music like this.” He went back to mindlessly writing on his paper. Grif imagined that he was writing something obscene and stupid about his father. And then, with too much forced casualness, he tacked on, “Said it would be a bad influence.”

“Want me to turn it off?” Grif asked, already reaching out for his phone.

“No. I like it.”

Grif gave a surprised look to the other man across their small room. His mouth dropped open a little bit. He saw Simmons’ eyes, hiding behind thick glasses, flicker up to his face. The lanky man’s face colored into a shade of lightish-red that Grif thought looked really … nice on him. 

Grif buried that thought as quickly as it popped into his head. There was no reason for him to think Simmons looked nice in any context, especially not blushing. Shaking those thoughts from his head, he reached over and put on the next song.

Things got better after that. They found they had similar interests, some common ground to stand on. Their fighting was less barbed and more playful now. It eased into a bickering. Shared interests meant they tolerated each other, and after they tolerated each other a genuine friendship started to form between them. Then after they became friends, they quickly became attached at the hip.

Grif hadn’t been friendless when he was younger, but his friendship with Simmons wasn’t like  _ anything _ he had experienced with his other friends, as cliche as that sounds. Grif assumed it was the proximity. He had only ever lived with Kai before Simmons, and living in a shared space with someone was bound to make you grow at least a little closer to them probably. If it wasn’t that, Grif really didn’t know what it could have been. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say Grif didn’t want to know at first.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Simmons breathed, slipping back into their dorm at somewhere near two thirty in the morning. He sounded exhilarated and alive and so, so excited. “Go sit on your bed, I’ll be right there.” And then he slipped out of Grif’s eyeline as he went to grab something from a different part of their dorm. Grif could hear him shuffling around over there, but the larger man didn’t actually make an attempt to look. He just closed his eyes and tried to recant what the hell had just happened. 

It was somewhere around midnight when Grif decided he needed to go for a drive that night. Simmons, who was usually asleep by that time, propped himself up on one elbow and squinted in the darkness. Grif had explained to him that sometimes he just wanted to go,  _ had to go. _ It was something his whole family had a tendency to do, just run off. Sticking around wasn’t exactly in the Grif nature, despite how desperately he wanted the opposite. Simmons, whether in understanding or curiosity, wordlessly fumbled for his glasses and slipped on a pair of slippers and followed him out. 

So they drove that night. For two and a half hours they drove. They sped down the empty streets of their city, laughing and listening to music and in general doing things that would make Simmons’ dad’s face fall with instant disappointment. Driving recklessly while exhausted wasn’t exactly a good idea. One of their worst, of all time, and Grif maintains that to this day. So when they nearly crashed, Grif wasn’t even all that surprised. They didn’t actually hit anything, but Grif had to step on the brakes pretty abruptly to stop that from happening. Simmons was fine, luckily, though it still wasn’t a great stop for him. Grif, on the other hand, had a habit of not wearing his seatbelt. So when his head crashed into the steering wheel, Grif figured that he deserved it for not practicing proper car safety. The pain and bloody nose that followed, though, was a little overkill.

“I’m back,” Simmons whispered. Grif felt the bed in front of him dip, and then one of Simmons’ thin hands were coming up to cup him on the cheek and turn his head. Simmons gently pressed a wet rag to his face, dabbing away some of the blood. Simmons’ big green eyes were shining from behind his thick nerd glasses. “I can’t believe we did that,” He whispered again, obviously to himself this time, “My dad would hate this so much.”

“You regret it?” Grif asked, trying so hard to ignore the warmth in the hand cupping his cheek. This was nice. This was a good moment. Sure, his nose could be seriously fucked up, but Simmons was so,  _ so _ close and he was holding Grif’s face with his hand and looking at him like nothing else mattered so Grif figured he would take what he could get. 

Grif didn’t exactly know when that was something that he wanted, the closeness and the physical contact. He didn’t remember when he started thinking about it or craving it.

Simmons rolled his bottom lip between his teeth as he fought off a grin. “Of course I do,” He said quietly, as if talking too loud would expose them or shatter everything that was happening at the moment. “I can enjoy it and regret it. Those are two statements that can coexist.”

Ignoring how Simmons had started to prod at his nose, Grif smirked a little at him, “You enjoyed it, huh? I never thought you’d be so happy to go on a joyride.” He winced a little, as Simmons touched a quickly forming bruise.

“It doesn’t seem like your nose is broken,” Simmons said, more to change the subject than anything else. He went back to wiping away blood. “Which is good. Your face is stupid enough as it is without a broken nose.”

“Tough talk Simmons, but have you seen yourself? You’re not exactly what I think of when I think of hot.”

Simmons flushed a little. The red traveled from his cheeks all the way down his neck and disappeared somewhere under his shirt. Grif watched the freckles stand out and his eyes practically glow. And yeah, he’s not hot, but right now Grif thinks he is so, _so_ _pretty._ “Why would I want to be hot to you? You should be lucky I’m taking care of you right now,” He huffed unhappily. Simmons’ pinched the cheek he was holding and let him go entirely.

Simmons lingered on Grif’s bed for a few moments, and there was nothing said between them. They just… Looked at each other. And although Grif really doesn’t think of Simmons when he thinks of someone who is hot even to this day, Grif realized that his feelings for his dormmate were more than just platonic. Grif liked Simmons. The same Simmons who was stuck up and high strung and not at all conventionally attractive. The Simmons that would’ve rather died than politely correct a food order. The Simmons that was the complete and total opposite from Grif and everything he ever wanted to be. Grif was  _ gone _ for him.

But just like that the moment was over, and Simmons was getting up from his bed and kicking off his slippers neatly beside his bed. He pulled his thick glasses off his face and laid down in his bed. Grif watched him bundle himself up in two or three blankets. A pair of bright green eyes peaked out at him from atop his covers.“Good night, Grif,” Simmons said into the quiet room.

Grif sat there for a couple more minutes. It wasn’t an earth-shattering revelation. It was more like something that he should have known, like something that had been building up. It was less of an all-encompassing realization and more of something that just … clicked together. It felt natural, liking Simmons, as if that was something that he was just meant to do. Like it was something he couldn’t have avoided even if he tried. To this day, Grif believes that.

Life continued like that. Grif buried down his feelings for his dormmate and Simmons had no idea they existed in the first place. It was good, because there was no chance of making things awkward. Grif would rather have Simmons as only his best friend forever than possibly ruin things by confessing to feelings that aren’t returned. 

So Grif and Simmons just stayed like they are. They stayed Grif and Simmons. Bickering best friends that are attached at the hip and that support each other when they need it. It was like that for so long. Really long.

It was like that for two and a half years. Not because of some outrageous falling out, but because of something much sadder. During their first semester in junior year, Simmons started having severe mental health issues. He had always had anxiety but it just got worse the further in college he went. It made tests impossible. Which was unfair, because Simmons knew the material … before he started regularly skipping class in fear of being scrutinized by his professors and peers. If he wasn’t going to class or taking the tests, then that kinda meant that he was failing by default. Which made him super depressed. Like the kind of depressed where he couldn’t find motivation to do anything and he didn’t eat and just stares, hollow and empty and distant. He was practically catatonic in his bed, curled up tightly under several layers of blankets.

It scared Grif, to see Simmons trying to act normal while he felt like his life was falling apart around him. Grif tried to be something normal and steady at this time for him, but it just seemed to be getting worse every time Grif turned around. 

If asked, Simmons will say he doesn’t remember much of this time. Grif believes him. The taller man says that most of that whole semester was a blur, and the only thing he can really remember clearly from it was the talk Grif had with Simmons. 

Simmons was laying in his bed with his covers pulled up over his head, trying desperately to pretend like he wasn’t there. He had been there for a while, hours. When Grif left for a block of three back to back classes, Simmons was curled in his bed. When Grif got back, nothing had changed. It was so unlike him it made Grif’s stomach drop. 

“Okay, dude,” Grif sat on Simmons’ bed, careful to not sit on his long lanky legs, “We gotta talk about this.”

Simmons didn’t respond for a minute but then he shifted onto his side so that his back was facing Grif. It was a completely useless gesture since he was already turned away from the shorter man. “Nothin’ to talk about,” He hissed with a voice muffled under a layer of blanket. 

“Yeah, yeah, there is,” Grif set one hand on Simmons’ back and rubbed in a way he knew used to comfort Kai when they were growing up, “You know me, I’m not the type to have this conversation unless we need it … and we need it.  _ You need it, _ ” He hoped his hand that was somewhere on Simmons’ upper back was comforting to him. He took a deep breath and considered how to proceed. This was never his forte, emotions and emotional conversations, but he had to do something. He had to try his best for Simmons. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing’s your fault, dude, we just-”

“But, that’s the thing!” Simmons exclaimed frustratedly and threw the blanket off of him entirely. He squirelled his whole body away from Grif and ended up sitting with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees on the other side of his bed. “It  _ is _ my fault,” He said miserably into them, “I’m not smart. If I was smart I’d be able to do those tests no problem. I’m not cool, or relaxed, or funny,  _ or anything! _ I’m smart! That’s my thing! That’s my only thing!” He seethed. Simmons brought up his hands to tangle themselves into his hair, “I can’t do this anymore, Grif! I’m so miserable it’s not even funny! I fail at everything I do! And it’s going to cost me thousands of dollars just so I can fail at everything else in my life forever!” 

Grif frowned, his eyebrows furrowing together, “Simmons. You don’t fail at everything.”

“My major is dumb, also, and I hate it. I have no passion for it. I’m only doing it because it’s what my dad wanted for me. I never even stopped to think about what I want for myself. I have no idea!” Simmons’ fingers wound a little tighter in his hair, “Everything feels so fucking pointless, Grif!  _ I’m the smart one! _ If I’m not the smart one, I’m not anything! I’m nothing and everything I do is so fucking pointless.”

There were some missteps, but this could still be salvaged, if Grif was careful. He just had to take it slowly. One step at a time. First things first, “You’re not nothing.” Grif said calmly. “There’s more to you than just ‘the smart one’. There is more to you than academics, there’s-” He pauses, takes a deep breath, “I mean, fuck, Simmons. You’re a lot of things. You’re dorky and a nerd and you can be really funny and super competitive. You’re all the things that you love, you know?” He moved his hand, kept rambling a little, “You’re Star Wars and rock music and Dungeons and Dragons. You’re computers and Halo and sci-fi novels,” Grif paused, added quietly, “You’re my friend.”

Simmons gave an empty stare right past him, fingers curled tighter in his messy red hair. “Grif,” He started, and then abandoned the thought, “I can’t do anything with that. I can’t do anything with the things that I love. I’m going to get stuck into a boring nothing day after day or  _ fail trying _ and it’s all just so awful. I can’t do this anymore.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I mean. What’s the point anymore?” 

Grif watched Simmons’ diaphragm shake. The redhead was barely holding off tears. His breath shook. Grif hated seeing it. He wished, desperately, that he could make everything okay for him with the wave of a finger, but he couldn’t and it hurt. It ached. 

But he thought he knew something that could help. Though, he doubted Simmons would’ve liked the idea. The heavier man took a deep breath, “Simmons, I want you to listen to me and think rationally about what I say next.” He paused. He waited for Simmons to calm down a little. Grif waited until Simmons’ green eyes popped open again and some of the panic and fear had dissipated a little. He wanted his friend to have as clear a head as possible when he asked, “Have you ever considered dropping out?”

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Simmons let his hands slip out of his hair and fall limply beside him. His expression was just one of shock before it morphed into a seething, burning anger. “Fuck you,” He spit out, “How would that help anything-”

Grif held up his hands in a surrendering motion. This was not going the way Grif wanted it to, but he didn’t really have a plan so he couldn’t really say that it was going against anything, either. “I didn’t mean it in a harmful way. I just mean-” He took a second, looked away from the genuine anger in Simmons’ face (that ached too, but that wasn’t the focus of Grif’s attention), took a breath, counted to three, tried to be a steady rock that Simmons could lean on, “I’m just saying. This place obviously isn’t good for your mental health right now. That’s okay. You’re not a failure for that. It happens, sometimes. My mental health isn’t always perfect either,” He glanced back at his friend. The anger in his expression had softened, but it gives way to shame which Grif thinks he hates more. His thin lips are quivering and he shook a little more prominently now. “You can always come back. When things are better. After you work on your mental health some. Maybe see a therapist. Probably, definitely see a therapist. But, hey,” Grif gently urged, “Taking a semester, or a year, or however long you need isn’t going to kill you. It’s still going to be here waiting for you when you’re ready,” Grif explained and gently let his fingertips brush against his best friend’s arm. “You can come back. I’m just… Worried about you, dude.”

Simmons allowed his fingers to stay. Grif gently put his whole hand on Simmons’ arm. He felt his dormmate tremble against him, and there was nothing Grif could do but give him the lightest amount of physical reassurance now. The ball was in his court. 

His best friend took the shakiest breath and let it out slowly. It was unsteady and wobbly and it sounded full of shame and hurt and suffering. Grif loathed the sound with every inch of his heart. “I don’t understand,” Simmons whispered and swallowed around a lump in his throat. A few tears slipped out of his eyes and down his cheeks. Simmons shot his hands up to scrub at his eyes to get rid of the tears. But now that he had accidentally let some out, more were just coming without stopping. He gasped, shook, sobbed, “How come everyone can do it except me? Is it me? Why can’t I do it?  _ Am I broken?” _

Grif crawled a little closer to his best friend, now holding him with both hands. “It’s not like that. You’re normal, you’re perfect. It’s not uncommon. It doesn’t mean you aren’t smart or any other bullshit like that. A lot of people come back later, or take time for themselves. That’s not something you should feel bad for.” Simmons slumped miserably into his arms while he sobs. Grif wrapped them around him and held his best friend like he was made of fragile porcelain. 

Simmons wasn’t a pretty crier, but Grif didn’t really get to see it because the other man buried his face into his dormmate’s chest and clung to him as tight as he could.

It took a while of just holding him, comforting him, but inevitably, Simmons did calm down. He stayed there, tucked into Grif’s chest for a long time. So long that his breathing had evened out and the trembling had stopped and Grif was a little worried that Simmons was going to fall asleep right then and there. But to his surprise, after a long time of silence, Simmons whispered, “Would it really be okay if I dropped out and came back later?”

“Of course, dude,” Grif gently encouraged him. He kept his hand warm and firm on his back, drawing soothing nonsense shapes into his shirt. “Sometimes, people just need time. I can be there with you, every step of the way. No one is going to think any less of you.”

Simmons huffed a sardonic laugh right above Grif’s heart. “My dad would.”

“Fuck your dad. He sucks and also I hate him.”

“Still my dad,” Simmons huffed although it was greatly muffled because he spoke the words directly into his friend’s chest. “I don’t know Grif. I don’t know what I’d do, or where I’d go.”

“We can talk through the logistics,” Grif offered. He rubbed the redheads back again, slowly. He felt Simmons nod. Grif nodded back, although the other couldn’t see it. “Okay. It’s not as scary as it sounds, I promise.”

They did. They stayed up for a while and talked through how, logically, what would have happened if Simmons dropped out. The longer they talked, the more realistic of an option it seemed to be for him. It edged off some fears and it made Simmons realize just how good it could potentially be for his own mental health. So they talked, with Simmons tucked tightly into Grif’s chest until they both passed out, exhausted, on Simmons’ bed. Holding to each other like there was nothing else that really mattered to either of them.

And so by next semester, Simmons was officially a college drop-out and Grif was living in his very first apartment. The one before they found the Blood Gulch Apartments, the one that happened to be  _ a little _ infested with bugs but it was what he could find in his price range that was still close enough to where he could attend his classes without worry. Spending another year in that empty dorm without Simmons just sounded awful. Finding another dormmate to live with sounded even worse. Grif couldn’t even really imagine living like that, in a tiny college dorm with someone else. And distinctly without  _ Simmons.  _ So Grif went with the lesser of all three evils and started living off-campus. 

Simmons floated around for a little while, couch surfed for a bit. He actually lived with Grif for a brief period of time until he realized that there was no way they would be able to control the infestation, nearly had another breakdown, and had to leave. They still hung out. That was fine. Grif was still seeing him less, but he was happy that he was able to hang out with him at all. Simmons ended up at his parents briefly. Apparently, his father didn’t ask too many questions. Grif thinks it’s more likely that Simmons lied to live there a little longer. 

God, Grif is so in love with him. 

But after Grif got his degree and a steady job, he absolutely had to leave his old place. There was no way he could stay there. Simmons, upon hearing he was moving absolutely lit up. It wasn’t really a thing they had to talk about that much. Grif saw that Simmons wanted to start a new chapter and so did Grif. So they almost unspokenly decided it was something that they were going to do together. Simmons showed him an apartment in a price range that was totally doable for both of them, and Grif told him to keep an eye out. Since then they both knew that whatever next step they took, they were going to take it together.

Looking across their couch at the love of his life who is completely engrossed by something Data on Star Trek said, Grif knows that he wouldn’t take any part of it back even if he could. Not the arguing, or the awkward times, or the rough, sad ones. It’s his now, theirs, and it’s something that he’s going to treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really excited about posting this chapter! it was the third one i wrote, but the only one that actually made the cut to the fic. it's probably still my favorite one too!


	6. The Ghosts of Blood Gulch Apartments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons makes eye contact with him for a second before letting out an angry noise. “You’re so full of shit,” He rolls his eyes. The lanky man finishes cleaning the dishes and pulls the oversized gloves off of his hands. “This place isn’t haunted. You’re just trying to psyche me out.”

It was the dead of night when Grif first noticed the strange happenings. He was laying silently in his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember the hazy memories of his day. There was a gentle but persistent  _ thump, thump, thump _ that the lazy man could hear and  _ feel  _ through the walls of his apartment bedroom. Something about it felt so familiar, but at the same time it was too hazy and nearly forgotten that he couldn’t quite place what that damned noise was. 

He gets out of bed, duvet wrapped around his shoulders and dragging along the ground. He slowly makes his way into his and Simmons’ shared living space. In the middle of their living room, a shadowed figure stands there, long and towering. Any former drowsiness he was feeling is instantly shattered as his breathing speeds up a little. He grips the comforter around his shoulders tighter and ignores how his palms begin to sweat and how his heart rate speeds up. It’s nothing, Grif tells himself. But he only feels fear as he looks at the unknown figure in his living room. A car passes on the street, and a light reflects, glistening from near the top of the figure and - Oh! It’s Simmons’ with his glasses on. Instant relief floods Grif as the posture that previously seemed menacing registers as lanky, slouched, and endearing.

“Grif?” Simmons croaks out, questioning and groggy. He’s tired - Grif can tell - but there was still something that compelled him to get out of bed. “Do you hear that?” He shuffles his slippered feet across their floor until he’s standing right in front of his shorter roommate. He places his hands over Grif’s, now only the thick duvet separating the physical contact. 

Grif wills his attention away from Simmons and his hand placement. “Mmhmm,” He hums in agreement. He makes his voice thick with fake sleep, he doesn’t want Simmons to know how actually rattled he was earlier. “S’louder in my room,” He drawls and takes his time on the syllables. Like he’s too lazy and tired to force them out in a hurried way, despite his heart rate still lowering back to normal levels. 

For a minute there’s a stillness, an all encompassing silence. Then the thumping returns. Louder than before. Simmons’ thin fingers find themselves dug into the blanket slung around the other man. His eyebrows draw together and his whole face pinches in concentration as he listens intently. “What is that?” He asks. His voice is quiet, hushed, and above all else, annoyed. Grif smiles a little at the inflection, but...

Grif doesn’t have an answer. He wishes he did, but he just doesn’t. He wishes he could take the stress and frustration out of his face. Instead, he pulls the taller man over to their couch. Slowly, he folds himself up on the couch, throws the duvet mostly over himself, and lifts it up just enough for Simmons to crawl under. Simmons lets out a tired huff of laughter. He shakes his head at him, a smile making its way onto his face. Grif can see the ghost of it from within the darkness and knows that the other man can probably see him return a matching expression. Slowly, the nerd pulls his thick-rimmed glasses off of his face, pushes his slippers off and settles himself practically on Grif. Grif soaks up his warmth like a man in a desert. “Doesn’t exactly fix the problem,” Simmons mutters, but keeps his head tucked into Grif’s neck. He’s mostly laying on his larger roommate, curled as tight as he can get, but Grif is okay with that. One of Grif’s hands rests lightly on his back, and both of Simmons' hands are balled now into an old orange shirt Grif sleeps in.

Grif just gives a hum, already much more content than he was ten minutes ago. The memories of his day seem far away, yet unimportant. Drowsiness decides at that moment to hit him like a freight train, because suddenly he can’t keep himself up. His eyes drift shut, flutter open, drift shut again in a repeated dance. “It’s fine for now,” Grif says to comfort the other.

Simmons nods. He stifles a yawn against Grif’s neck and repeats his words, “It’s fine for now.”

They ignore the pulsing, almost rythmic noise for the rest of the night. Even if, at times, it gets eerily familiar, like the ghost of a memory that’s been blurred at the edges.

The  _ second _ time Grif noticed it, the outcome wasn’t as cuddly or romantic. Grif was in the hallway when he noticed some strange going-ons this time. He was on his way home from work, key half-way in the lock. The start of this particular incident practically made him jump three feet in the air. With shaking hands, he yanked the key out of the lock and stood in the hallway to listen in on what could be  _ absolutely _ nothing short of sinister. 

The first noise, the one that made Grif jump, was a loud crash that came from the stairwell. Almost like a body falling and crumpling down one of the flights. Next, there was groaning and then voices, and then a scream. There was more, insistent thumping on the stairwell. At one point, there seemed to be laughter. It sounded mocking and mean. The kind that would make Simmons’ flush and get insecure. More noises, more chaos came from down the hall and seemed like it was getting closer. 

This was bad, they can’t get closer. What happens if they get closer and get to Grif - or, oh god, what about Simmons? Anxiety rushes to his head. This could be a worst case scenario if he wasn’t careful. 

Even though his hands are still shaking, Grif shoves his key into his lock haphazardly. Quicker than he has ever moved in his life, Grif unlocks his apartment and launches himself inside. Adrenaline is still pumping through his veins. His breath is quick as he slams his back against it to shut it. Fumbling with his back still turned, he locks the door, slumps against it, and listens. 

The strange, disembodied voices float right in front of his door. It seems like they stop for a moment, because Grif can hear them loudly and clearly. If he thinks, he can almost recognize that voice. It’s too fuzzy, too detached, but it’s on the tip of his tongue. It’s, it’s-

The voice moves away. Grif places a hand on his hammering heart and takes a large, deep breath. It was nothing, it couldn’t have been anything. Because, if Grif thinks what’s happening actually is happening, then that could be bad news. That could mean a complete change in life as he knows it. If there was really-

“What the fuck is going on?” Simmons asks, head popping out of their kitchen. He is wearing comically large, bright yellow cleaning gloves and clutching a kitchen sponge. “Oh my god,” He gasps, horrified, “Are you having a heart attack? Grif? Can you hear me right now?” He begins to get a little closer, but Grif raises a hand to stop him. 

Grif leans his body weight against the door to gain the leverage needed to get him up off the floor. “I’m okay,” He assures his paranoid roommate, “I just … thought I heard something weird.” Simmons' expression of great concern quickly becomes great annoyance, but he says nothing and just lets Grif continue with his dramatic retelling, “There were voices. Noises. They were getting closer.”

Simmons gives him a dry, deadpan look. “Are you serious?” He asks. At Grif’s grave and serious nod, Simmons lets out a long suffering sigh. “Grif,” He stresses, “We live in an apartment complex! Of course you’re going to hear other people’s voices in the hallway and stairwell. People who live here use them.” He turns back to the kitchen, marches in there and knows Grif is following him. “You don’t need to go diving in our apartment to hide from our neighbors,” He pauses, “Unless Donut is trying to show people Officer Hot Pants again. That’s a totally normal response.”

Grif shivers at the reminder of Donut’s police officer character, Officer Hot Pants. “Poor Sarge,” He mutters, “His birthday was ruined by that.”

“Don’t forget the game he planned. Pin the tail on the culprit.”

“My ass still hurts from that needle.”

“Well, try not to antagonize Sarge so much and maybe you won’t be the culprit next time.”

Grif leans against their counter and watches as Simmons diligently scrubs at their dishes. “I guess leaping in here like that was kind of an overreaction. It was just the heat of the moment, you know?” He crosses his arms as he watches Simmons place a plate in their drying rack. “There have been some weird things happening lately. You remember when there was that noise that kept us up?”

Simmons’ face colors at that. He turns it away so that the larger man can’t see, but Grif can still see it on his ears. “I remember,” He mutters quietly. “I guess that is … kinda weird.” He picks up a cup, scrubs, “Do you think… Do you think that Blood Gulch Apartments are haunted?”

Truthfully… probably not. But, if there was one thing he loved, it was riling up his roommate. His love for that was second only to his love for his roommate. Grif moves that thought into the back of his mind and vows not to remember that later. “I don’t know,” He says with an exaggerated shake of his head, “It’s too early to tell.” 

Simmons makes eye contact with him for a second before letting out an angry noise. “You’re so full of shit,” He rolls his eyes. The lanky man finishes cleaning the dishes and pulls the oversized gloves off of his hands. “This place isn’t haunted. You’re just trying to psyche me out.”

At that moment, there’s a loud knock at the door. Simmons lets out an actual yell and jumps like two inches into the air. In a frenzy, Simmons’ hand darts out to the closest thing he could find. It ended up being a spatula from when they first moved in and needed cheap dishes really quickly. Simmons brandishes it like a sword and every hair on the redhead’s arm is standing from being unnerved. Grif stands there for a few moments, before turning to Simmons and cackling at him. His roommate’s whole face turns a wonderful patchy, blotchy, tomato-y red. 

“What’s a spatula gonna do to a ghost, Simmons?” Grif goads as he makes his way over to the door, “You gonna cook it to death? Remind me to be  _ even more _ afraid of you near a stove.”

Simmons slams their spatula against their freshly-cleaned counter. “I’m going to smother you in your sleep,” He seethes, “You’re going to wake up and become the real ghost of Blood Gulch Apartments.” 

Grif laughs as he opens the door. Upon seeing what was on the other side, the laughter died in his throat. Slowly, Grif reaches down and picks up the boxes. He glances around to see if he can catch anyone on a closing elevator, or even if the elevator is in use. It isn’t, and that almost freaks Grif out more. 

He slips back into his apartment, boxes balanced precariously in his arms. “Uh,” Grif starts, “Did you order pizza?” He goes into the kitchen and gently places two large sized pizza boxes and one smaller one onto their counter. 

Simmons stares at the pizza boxes. “No, I didn’t. Did you order pizza in your sleep again?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’ve really got to stop doing that. It was funny the first time, but this would be the fourth time it’s happened-”

“When would I have fallen asleep to do that? I just got back from work,” Grif says, opening up the smaller box on top. “And I didn’t fall asleep at work today, thank you very much.”

“I’m doubtful,” Simmons comments as he looks into the box from over Grif’s shoulder.

The small box on top was a small thing of breadsticks, not the cheesy ones but ones that Simmons could also eat without breaking his diet. Taped on the top of the box is a note, scribbled in neat script. Simmons leans a little more toward the box, and Grif can’t see his face but he knows he is squinting to look at it.

Slowly, one long arm reaches out from behind Grif and takes the note. Simmons clears his throat exaggeratedly and begins to read, “Hello, sir,” He begins, makes a soft tongue clicking noise and continues, “I know you didn’t order any pizza, but we miss hearing from you in the shop. Or seeing you. Or,” Simmons pauses. Grif turns around to see what’s holding him up. He has his face scrunched up in a way that Grif adores, it kind of pinches his whole face together and gives his nose little wrinkles that Grif usually picks on him about, “Okay. There’s just a lot of scratched out stuff. After all of that,” Simmons says with a heavy lilt of scrutiny, “We miss you! We hope you’ll come back soon. My coworker and I think you’re really peachy keen, sir. I’m being told that it’s only me that thinks you’re peachy keen. I think you’re peachy keen, sir. I hope you’ll enjoy a free order of your usual, on me.” Simmons looks up at Grif, his green eyes looking right into brown ones, “Then it’s just signed with an ‘M’?” 

Grif grabs a breadstick and chews on it, “Weird. So is this like a promotional thing they’re doing?” Simmons shrugs, grabs a breadstick and eats it. “Whatever. Free pizza.”

Simmons fidgets a little. “Kinda makes me a little nervous.... Why would someone just give you a free pizza?”

And, oh, Grif has a terrible idea. A wonderful terrible idea that is going to piss Simmons off so bad, but he can’t not say it. “I don’t know,” He says with forced nonchalance. He’s losing the battle of keeping a smirk off his face, “Maybe the ghost gave us pizza.”

Yeah. Simmons was pissed. The breadstick that got weaponized and launched at him was evidence of that. But they got free pizza and some nice time to spend together so Grif considers it to be a pretty good day in the end. 

It really hits Grif how drastic the situation is when he’s going up to practice with his band. Their group doesn't have a name, but Tucker thinks they have a pretty cool sound. Grif thinks everyone but Caboose on the drums is absolutely awful, but they play anyways because it makes them happy. They even let Carolina sing, despite her absolute lack of musical prowess. Grif plays the bass, Tucker’s on guitar, and Caboose is on drums. Like earlier stated, they are so,  _ so bad.  _ But they make do.

Simmons was coming to practice this time, just to watch. “I swear to god,” Simmons hisses as the elevator to the third floor slides open, “If I have to listen to you guys play Girls on Film by Duran Duran one more time, I’m going to lose it.”

“I’ll make sure to tell Carolina to add that in our lineup. Tucker’s gonna love it,” Grif says with a smirk. They fall into step as they head over to the apartment Caboose and Church share together. “I think Carolina has the range for it. Which,” He makes a vague, half formed motion with his hand. Simmons nods, understanding what he means without Grif having to elaborate, “No disrespect to Duran Duran, you know how much I adore 80s boy bands, but…” 

Before Grif can get another word in, he sees something. The scenario feels like something straight out of a nightmare, because everything Grif has been dreading was being brought to life right here in front of him. “Holy shit!” Grif screams and jumps behind Simmons. It had to be an optical illusion. There was no way it could actually be … There was no way … 

“What is it?!” Simmons asks, looking around quickly. “I don’t have anything to protect us with, Grif!” He shouts. Suddenly, he perks up a little and fishes their apartment keys out of his pocket and slots them neatly between his fingers. Defense position.

“Um,” Tucker starts from his open door, “Are you two, like, dying or something?” 

“Hi!” Grif’s personal nightmare says in what is supposed to be a cheery greeting.

Grif lets out another startled gasp. He grips onto Simmons’ shoulders. “Am I dreaming? How am I not dreaming?” He shakes his roommate’s shoulders, ignoring the surprised and offended squawk he got in return, “This is the worst thing that could happen!”

Everyone ignores Wash, standing down the hall, asking, “The worst thing that could happen ever? Of all time?”

Tucker makes an annoyed face at his friend and Simmons and then turns back to his conversation that he is having. “Okay, so even if your friends hang out here, I’m only paying you. Last time Bitters tried to swindle money out of me. I’m not doing that again.”

Slowly, Grif approaches, keeping Simmons firmly in front of him. “What are you?” He asks, making sure to add a terrified note to his voice.

The figure turns to Grif. A confused little smile is sent his way before a reply of, “I’m Palomo! I live on the second floor with some friends of mine! A few friends of mine,” He looks away a little, “Is five roommates too much for a place like this? No, we’re broke college kids, you can never have enough roommates.”

Grif lets out a scream that is totally masculine. “Oh my god!” He backs up to the wall adjacent from Tucker’s door. “This is awful! Simmons, it’s exactly what I feared!” 

Simmons, who has put the keys away since he realized Grif was just reacting to Palomo, gives him an empty stare. “What?” He asks. 

“College kids.”

Simmons presses his lips into a thin line. He taps his foot impatiently against the floor. “So you acting all weird and panicky recently … It was all because of  _ college kids? _ What about them? They live here?” When Grif gives a nod in reply, Simmons twists his expression to one of anger. “You asshole! You had me thinking there was a ghost!” He shrieks.

“Hey, language!” Tucker scolds, “My kid is like, right here!”

“Hi, Junior,” Simmons says, instantly a million times more pleasant. 

“Blarg,” The small child says in reply. Simmons nods like it makes all the sense in the world to him.

“Sorry, Palomo,” A girl’s voice calls from the stairwell, “Smith couldn’t choose between which movie he wanted to watch with Junior! And Bitters tried to stay back and sleep!” 

“Don’t see why I couldn’t,” A short boy replies. His hands are stuffed deep into a pair of ripped jeans, “Matthews isn’t here.” 

“Matthews is at work,” A much, much taller person replies.

“Hey,” Grif says, pointing at the short guy in front of him. “You’re our pizza guy. You’re the one that usually delivers the pizzas here. What are you doing here?” Grif’s stomach drops, suddenly, “Don’t tell me you live here. You’re like, one of the only college kids I’ve ever respected. That includes Simmons, back when we were in college.” 

Simmons gives a little hum, “That was a long time ago- Hey, wait!” He gently slaps at Grif’s arm, “Asshole!”

The short college kid, Bitters probably, gives a little shrug. “Yeah, that’s me. Although I did get removed from the schedule for a bit. Almost fired.” He rolls his eyes and makes his way over to Tucker’s apartment door. The older man has to step away from it in order to not get crowded in his doorway. “I live here, yeah. Why does it matter?”

Grif shrugs a little, scratches the back of his neck, “Kind of expensive for college kids.”

“We have five roommates!” The girl says. Simmons gives a little squeak and jumps behind Grif, not because she’s in college, but because Simmons is terrified of women. They ignore Tucker making a comment about them ‘taking turns to hide from children’. “There’s me, Jensen,” The girl flashes a large smile, showing off her braces, “Then there’s Smith!” She points at the very tall man, “Bitters,” Pizza boy, “Palomo,” Babysitter, “And Matthews is at work!” 

Grif just shakes his head sadly. “I can’t believe there are actual college kids here. If you guys do anything reckless, I swear to god.” He turns to Simmons and frowns unhappily. “I guess that solves the case. Not haunted by ghosts, but haunted by kids aged 18 to 22. I don’t know which is worse.” 

“Ghosts,” Simmons says.

“It must be a tie. Poltergeists or parties” 

“No, the ghosts would be way worse! The only thing that would be worse than ghosts are snakes.”

“We’re not actually cool enough to go to parties,” Jensen says a little bashfully. She twirls some of her long hair around her finger, “We don’t really do anything reckless either. Except, a few days ago, Palomo fell down the stairs. I don’t know if that counts.”

“Wait, if you guys don’t party what was that noise the other night? The weird thumping? It kinda sounded like every generic party song like, ever,” Grif questions and raises one of his bushy eyebrows in suspicion. 

Smith gives Grif a small little smile, “Sorry about that! Bitters like to listen to music while he studies! He just likes to listen very loudly.” The tall man gives the other man in question a slightly worried look. “We didn’t think you could hear if from outside our home, but we were wrong.”

Grif groans a long and heavy hearted groan that he knows that Simmons absolutely hates. “They study while loudly listening to party music. What kind of monster does that?!” He tips his head back and looks at Simmons as he lets out another whiny, “They even take the stairs! They are monsters!” 

Simmons glares at him. If looks could kill, Grif would absolutely be dead. “Quit being overdramatic about the tenants here and let’s go. You have things you actually wanted to do today, remember?”

Grif gives him an expression of a fog in his mind suddenly lifting, leaving him with perfect clarity. “You’re absolutely right, Simmons,” He agrees. He then turns to Tucker and gives him a wide smile. “Simmons says he really wants us to play Girls on Film.”

“Hell yeah!” Tucker cheers. He pumps a fist in the air as he makes his way a few doors down to his friend’s apartment. “Love that song!”

Simmons groans and falls into step with Grif as they join Tucker. “I hate you,” Simmons says to Grif. There is no real fire behind it, but the lanky man, for good measure, tacks on a, “So much.”

“Yeah,” Grif starts with a smile that is much softer than the situation calls for, “Love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so fun to write! id had the idea for it since i began writing this fic and im pretty happy with the result!


	7. mint and tobacco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif lets out a little huff of laughter and shakes his head. His long hair is free from the bun and recently washed and he’s not conventionally attractive but Simmons doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone as pretty as Grif is, illuminated only by moonlight in the dead of night in their apartment that they share together. In the life they share together. “I’m alright,” He lies easily, and Simmons wishes it was harder for Grif to spout the little white lies to him, “Just…” He trails off. His eyes dart to a window. He’s gathering his thoughts, testing them out and the possible consequences. Grif’s careful about that. Simmons wishes he wasn’t. “You wanna go for a drive?” He settles on.

Sometimes Grif gets  _ antsy. _ That’s the only way Simmons can describe it. He can see it coming from a mile away. When you’re as close to someone as Simmons is to Grif, you have to pick up on the small things. 

The signs start with how Grif acts when he smokes. He’s no chainsmoker, but he does enjoy being outside. He’ll step onto their small, sad little balcony that was lovingly decorated in thriving greenery that Grif planted in an attempt to make their tiny home in a concrete jungle a tad brighter and more colorful. (He smokes out there because Simmons shrieks at him about smoking inside.) Normally he would smoke one and just sit in the sunlight and bask in it, like a lounging cat. But when he gets antsy he would easily smoke half a pack just sitting out there. Simmons watches anxiously through their little glass door and busies himself doing anything he can find.

The next biggest sign is him zoning out. It isn’t a super rare occurrence, though it is more of a Simmons-ism than something that Grif does often. But Grif’s dark brown eyes will gloss over and his broad fingers will twitch and Simmons’ll wish he could do more than just watch. He wishes they could talk, but they don’t talk. They never talk. That’s okay, too. Maybe one day they’ll be more comfortable with talking. This isn’t when Simmons decides to ask either. 

That comes later. Grif stays up late when he is antsy like that. He’ll stay up and walk around and smoke and do anything to distract him from the itchiness inside of him. Simmons will pretend that it wakes him up, every time, but he has a feeling in the bottom of his stomach that Grif knows that Simmons knows. Simmons has on his stupid thick-rimmed nerd glasses because he took out his contacts hours ago and he’s in pajamas and he looks like the picture of sleep, but he’s on edge and not tired at all.

When Simmons emerges from his bedroom, they lock eyes from across the apartment. Grif is frozen like a statue, like he got caught with his hands in the cookie jar. He looks guilty, briefly, but then quickly schools his expression into a careful nothing. Like the burning and static under his skin isn’t anything that is bothering him. Simmons stares for a few seconds more, just to let the eye contact hold some weight, clears his throat, and then let out an earnest and faux-tired, “Y’alright?” 

Grif lets out a little huff of laughter and shakes his head. His long hair is free from the bun and recently washed and he’s not conventionally attractive but Simmons doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone as pretty as Grif is, illuminated only by moonlight in the dead of night in their apartment that they share together. In the life they share together. “I’m alright,” He lies easily, and Simmons wishes it was harder for Grif to spout the little white lies to him, “Just…” He trails off. His eyes dart to a window. He’s gathering his thoughts, testing them out and the possible consequences. Grif’s careful about that. Simmons wishes he wasn’t. “You wanna go for a drive?” He settles on.

So no talking tonight. Just driving like they usually do when Grif feels stifled. That’s alright with Simmons.

“Yeah,” Simmons agrees, like he always does when Grif gets like this, “Just let me grab a jacket and some shoes.” And he doesn’t ask where they’re going. He never asks.

Grif sends him a smile and his eyes, despite being so dark, shine so bright in their unlit home that it makes Simmons’ heart thump a little quicker against his ribcage and he turns back to his room to hide it. 

When he’s in his room, Simmons picks the largest, best insulated jacket he owns. And some gloves. He has poor circulation, and maybe Grif can pick on him later about it and they can fall into an old familiar banter. Something Grif can use as a conversation starter if he feels like talking later. He slips his long feet into a pair of slippers he normally wouldn’t wear outside if it was any other situation and takes a look at himself in the mirror. 

Grif always brings Simmons out when he goes driving. The redhead doesn’t know whether or not it’s because they’re always together or if he just catches him at the right time or… The more hopeful part of Simmons - the part he tries to stuff down and smother to death every time he feels butterflies fluttering through his stomach - wonders if it means that Grif wouldn’t just take off without him. According to Grif, his family has a tendency to just get up and go and not leave much behind. According to Grif, staying stagnant for too long makes his blood boil underneath his skin and his head throb with a need to go, go,  _ go, just get out of here. _ But he hasn’t left Simmons behind, not once since they met. Simmons would follow him if he ever did want to leave for good, he just has to know that Grif wants him to stay.

Simmons walks out of his room and watches Grif step into a pair of old beaten up crocs that they both hate but can’t bring themselves to get rid of. And the shorter man is still in a faded t-shirt of a rock band that they listened to in college and a pair of shorts that were made when Grif decided it was too hot one day and took a pair of scissors to some sweatpants. It’s a terrible outfit but it’s so Grif. Simmons tucks himself into Grif’s side like he belongs there and Grif grabs the keys out a little bowl the taller of the two insists on having right by the door. 

They head outside to Grif’s old, beaten up Jeep - one of the models without doors that Simmons can’t name because he isn’t good enough with cars to even try. Grif sits in the driver’s side and lights a cigarette as Simmons gets his seatbelt on and squirms and checks all the lights. When he’s done he gives Grif a look. They both already know what it means without either of them saying anything, but Simmons likes the song and dance even with how repetitive the motions are. “Cigarettes are disgusting,” Simmons chastises, “They’ll rot your lungs. I’m not giving you mine, either, so you’re gonna be out of luck.” And despite what he says Simmons has grown to have a love hate relationship with Grif’s stupid menthols. Despite the fact that they’re terrible for the smoker and everyone near then, despite the fact that they’ve stained Grif’s fingernails, despite the fact that sometimes Grif had a nasty smoker’s cough, Simmons didn’t entirely hate them. They reminded Simmons of Grif and how he would smoke early in the mornings, before either of them were awake enough to argue. The cigarettes remind Simmons of Grif and home and emotions he doesn’t have the strength to name but he knows what they are. They remind Simmons of Grif’s lips and how his mouth would probably taste like mint and tobacco.

Grif flicks the orange butt of his smoke out into the parking lot of their complex and turns to Simmons. His best friend moves his hand from where it was resting on the stick to softly prod Simmons in the rib with his pinky. “You good?” He asks, just to check up on him. Simmons can see his breath during the coldness of winter and thinks about kissing him again. 

Instead, he nods a little and then lets out a huff. “Just thinking about how you’re going to get hypothermia out here in that. It’s cold, Grif.” He crosses his arms over his chest and hopes Grif realizes he is trying to take care of him. Grif gives a half-hearted shrug and they don’t talk about it.

That’s okay. Simmons is more preoccupied with the wind blowing through his short hair. Is more preoccupied by the way Grif’s hair is dancing around them as he speeds through their city streets. Simmons watches the light from the streetlamps bounce off of his skin and Simmons feels alive and his heart feels full and he wants times like these to last forever. Times where the rest of the world doesn’t matter and it is just Grif and Simmons and the night and the wind and the high speeds. 

Every time they do this it reminds Simmons of the first time. A dark night in college where Grif really did wake Simmons up on accident. The feeling the lanky man refuses to name blossomed on that day, an uncomfortable weightlessness sat heavy in his limbs and his chest, but now it’s just how Simmons feels all the time and being without that feeling just makes him feel like he’s missing a piece of himself. Simmons tried hard not to label the piece with anything dumb like ‘Grif’ or ‘love’ or anything like that. Even if he knows what it is. 

The winter wind is cold on their faces. Grif wouldn’t ever admit it, but it’s probably cold even to him. There’s no doors, no insulation, so they just have to put up with the freezing temperatures even as Grif begins to go 20 over the speed limit, 30, 40, 50 now. Simmons doesn’t move to grab on to anything else. He trusts that Grif would keep them safe and get them home. 

Grif lets out a laugh and god, he sounds so alive and if Simmons’ heart could physically burst at a sound it would right then. It’s exhilarated and breathless and excited and it reminds the redhead of how he feels when they’re together. Simmons lets out a laugh that matches his, but just a little more tentative. 

Eventually, Grif slows down enough to pull into one of those twenty-four hour truck stops. He pats Simmons’ knee and gives him a grin full of teeth and coos out a, “Come on, Simmons. We’re gonna get something to drink and I’m just gonna top off the tank and head back home.” And his use of home makes Simmons’ heart soar.

“What?” Simmons says and furrows his eyebrows. “Are you kidding me? Look at us! You’re in summer clothes and I’m in pajamas. You can’t be serious,” He whines, but he’s already taking off his seatbelt. Neither of them talk about it. 

“Yeah, we’re going in. If you don’t go in I’m gonna get you one of those shitty canned coffees you hate.” 

“Fuck you, those are so gross,” But there’s no heat to it. Simmons steps out of the jeep and hates that his slippers are touching this dirty parking lot but makes no actual complaints about it. 

Simmons does as he always does, he follows Grif. He follows him through the truck stop as Grif grabs a generic soda, always different, and he follows Grif as he leads Simmons to get a can of iced tea. Grif picks out some other little snacks and then goes to pay. Simmons follows his lead. Grif says to give some amount Simmons didn’t quite hear to whatever pump they’re on and pays for all their items without Simmons realizing it.

The cashier glances at them as she rings them up. She doesn’t say anything, she probably doesn’t care, it makes Simmons want to laugh. They look ridiculous separately, but together is an even stranger sight. They look like they’re from different worlds, and in a way Simmons supposes they are. 

Grif gets another pack of green Marlboro cigarettes - not the carton, those are too expensive and Grif doesn’t smoke that much - and they leave to go back to the home they share together. 

Simmons lets out a little laugh as he watches Grif pump the gas. Grif glances back at him, and the edges of his lips perk up almost unconsciously. “What?” He asks, briefly turning his attention to his best friend and away from the gas.

“What do people think when they see us together?” Simmons questions. He rests his head on the seats as he half turns in his seat so he gets a better angle on his roommate. Grif falters for a second. His eyebrows draw together and he seems a little confused and taken aback and breathless at the same time, and Simmons doesn’t know what he did to deserve that reaction so he just decides to elaborate more rather than leave him hanging. “Look at us,” He motions to them with one of his long, lanky arms, “We look like complete opposites. You’re in shorts and I have on mittens.”

It clicks in Grifs head and the larger man sticks his tongue out, “‘m wearing sweatpants lite, excuse me.”

Simmons’ eyebrows draw together, but there's a smile on his face. “It’s not sweatpants lite. You just cut up a pair of sweatpants!”

“Same difference.”

“There’s a huge difference there, Grif!” Simmons huffs and faces the right way. He opens his can and takes a sip in fake anger. Grif chuckles at the sight. 

The way back home is much like the way there, but Grif has his hair pulled back this time. Simmons silently mourns the look of hair-down Grif but doesn’t actually complain about it. They bicker and Simmons complains about the things that don’t matter and he wonders if holding Grif’s hand would be warmer than any mitten he had ever felt. He watches his roommate as the other man flies them down the empty streets of their town. Simmons has never felt more alive. Grif seems genuinely better, like his wanderlust is temporarily satiated with merely breaking some traffic laws with his ex-college roommate.

They go into their apartment quietly. Donut and Church would kill them if either of them decided to be too loud and wake anyone up. Grif shoots him a tired smile and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything as Simmons unlocks the door to their shared apartment. On typical nights where the stagnant troubles of domestic life crush Grif, he would go to bed without saying anything. Sometimes, on worse nights, there would be a quiet ‘thanks, sorry for waking you’. 

Simmons is normally alright with that. But tonight, he decides to break the pattern. “Grif,” He starts. There’s so many things he should say - so many things he needs to say - but he can’t find the words. The beginning of a confession of something Simmons doesn’t let himself name is half-formed in his mind. A childish demand of knowing just what gets into him on nights like these runs through his head, but above all the racing, loud thoughts, there is one that sounds out above the rest: “Would you take me with you if you left?”

Grif completely turns to face him. Dark brown eyes wide and stubbled jaws dropped a little. Simmons regrets it, but he doesn’t want to take back what he said. The taller of the two tries to keep his breathing even as he thinks of a way to play off what he says. Instead, there’s a quiet, almost vulnerable, “You’d want to come?” And Simmons has never heard him sound like that. It occurs to him that this might be the talk, one they’ve been putting off for far too long now. 

“Of course,” The redhead says. He shifts his weight and busies himself with prying the mittens off of his fingers. “Despite everything, I actually enjoy being around you. You’re like family to me.” He pulls the fabric off of his thumb. “Except my actual family sucks. More than you do. But that’s-” Simmons lets out a little laugh, looking past his roommate at the door leading to their balcony and the greenery Grif cares for. Looking at him, in his eyes, would feel like too much. He can’t do that, not right now, so instead he says, “You know all about that.”

Grif looks at him, searches his face. Simmons feels exposed and transparent and open but he doesn’t move. In the song and dance they know so well, Simmons did the wrong move on purpose and now he’s stuck in limbo to see what Grif’s next move is. Grif opens his mouth again, like he wants to say something. Raises his hand like he wants to do something. He must decide that whatever he was going to do wasn’t worth it - Simmons tries to push away the feeling that he wasn’t worth it - because he grimaces briefly and drops his hand. There's a quick shake of his head. When Grif looks back at him there is a smile, soft, so soft, softer than Simmons has ever seen. “Goodnight,” Grif says and the curtains fall on their interrupted routine. 

He’ll be there tomorrow, back to normal. The antsy-ness will be gone and so will any talks of tonight. Grif will always be there tomorrow, because of course he will be. The thought of Grif not being there is scary to him. He didn’t actually think he needed him that badly until the time where his best friend was finishing college and he moved back in with his parents. They still saw each other, but Simmons ached over the fact that Grif wasn’t right there. Like he should have been, like they both know he should have been. It just seems normal, where there is a Dexter Grif you’ll find one Dick Simmons. If Grif disappeared one day, Simmons would probably start wearing orange and smoke those awful menthols just for the reminder of how the smell would sometimes linger around the other man. It’s gross. Simmons knows he’s in love.

It’ll be the same song and dance tomorrow. Simmons is okay with that. As long as Grif is there to perform with, Simmons will do it over and over and over again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo this is another chapter i am fond of and one i wrote to pull me out of a bad mental health episode! a lot of these chapters are prewritten so ive been sitting on this for a while and im rlly happy i get to put it somewhere!
> 
> speaking of prewritten chapters, those are almost gone. i had eight prewritten chapters going into this fic and ive rewritten the eighth several times. so if updates are slower and not as consistent i apologize!


	8. You Had Me at Halo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if Grif hypothetically had someone to celebrate the holiday with, he doubts he would actually enjoy it. The cheesiness of the love songs on the radio, the hearts strung up everywhere, the mushiness from people that were lucky enough to have partners; it all made Grif feel sick. And alone. He’s usually alone on Valentine’s Day, the only exception being his junior year of high school where he actually had a girlfriend for a few months, but that obviously didn’t end well. 
> 
> So, rather than Grif and Simmons ruminating and stowing in their own forced love isolation, they decide that they’re going to celebrate a random holiday each year on the 14th of February. It’s been a tradition since their second semester of college, and so far it’s been quite an eclectic collection of festivities. Grif’s personal favorite was celebrating the infamous Star Wars fan holiday ‘May the Fourth Be With You’. This year they’ve seemed to pick out… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i give u a holiday special for two holidays it is nowhere near! the title of this chapter is taken from the valentines psa!

The beginning of the year was usually Grif’s least favorite time. The holidays just ended, the weather outside is cold as fuck, you have to get used to writing a new year on papers and Grif still writes 2016 on his documents half the time. It’s all a hassle. But every February, his absolute least favorite holiday rolls around: Valentine’s Day.

Even if Grif hypothetically had someone to celebrate the holiday with, he doubts he would actually enjoy it. The cheesiness of the love songs on the radio, the hearts strung up everywhere, the mushiness from people that were lucky enough to have partners; it all made Grif feel sick. And alone. He’s usually alone on Valentine’s Day, the only exception being his junior year of high school where he actually had a girlfriend for a few months, but that obviously didn’t end well. 

So, rather than Grif and Simmons ruminating and stowing in their own forced love isolation, they decide that they’re going to celebrate a random holiday each year on the 14th of February. It’s been a tradition since their second semester of college, and so far it’s been quite an eclectic collection of festivities. Grif’s personal favorite was celebrating the infamous Star Wars fan holiday ‘May the Fourth Be With You’. This year they’ve seemed to pick out… 

“Do my fangs look sharp enough?” Simmons questions, stepping out of his room in a ridiculous looking vampire cape and his red hair gelled back so far that it’s going to take at least half an hour for him to get it out. “They are hard to talk in.”

Grif moves to stifle a laugh behind his hand. His brown eyes light up with mirth as Simmons frowns at him and the cheap plastic fangs decide to peak out from under his top lip. “Yeah,” Grif agrees, trying to get a handle on himself, “But are you sure wearing that all night isn’t going to be draining?”

“Very funny, Grif,” Simmons rolls his eyes but the way his lips twitch upward reveals he was happy with his roommate’s answer. 

“Do you think my vampire puns are gonna get dull? You gotta help me out here man.”

Simmons groans. He rolls his head back some to look right at the ceiling. “You’re such a pain in the neck,” He complains. The joke makes Grif’s whole face light up.

“That’s what I’m talking about, Simmons!” Grif says with a huge smile on his face. Simmons hides a laugh behind his hand. At one point, his fangs pop out of his mouth and he has to shove them back in before Grif notices. It fails, of course, because Grif has made looking at Simmons an unfortunate hobby of his. He had to play it casual, though, so he turned away before his roommate could notice him looking. “I’ve already ordered pizza, so we should be good on that front. All I have to do is change. Have you picked out the movies?”

Simmons crosses his arms in front of his chest, but his stance looks so much less intimidating when it is being shadowed by a big billowing vampire cape., “Of course I have. Only the absolute worst ones for tonight. Terrible jumpscares, bad CGI, sequels, remakes, and the shittiest Saw movies.”

“Oh, speaking of Saw,” Grif brings up casually as he makes his way to his room to change, “Have you ever been to SawCon?”

“SawCon?” Simmons asks and scrunches up his nose in displeasure. “Why would that be a thing? Every movie in the franchise past the first one is awful.”

“Saw Con these-”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to know.”

Grif cackles as he goes and gets changed into his zombie outfit. It was his Halloween outfit from last year, but it wasn’t like there were a lot of places to find new costumes at the beginning of the year. Before he met Simmons, Grif had the tendency to get one Halloween costume and recycle it until he inevitably outgrew it. He always enjoyed Halloween, it meant free candy when he was younger and an excuse to have a party when he was older, but it was never something that Grif thought was important enough to pour money into. He would for Kai, because she loved dressing up in any outfit she could get her hands on. Grif just made do with what he could, until he met Simmons. Simmons demanded that they get him unique costumes every year, even if they weren’t super elaborate or expensive. It surprised Grif to learn that he actually enjoyed the dressing up aspect of Halloween, despite it never really being something that he got as a child.

He pulled on the swampy zombie costume and stepped out of his bedroom. Simmons sees him and smiles a little. “I’m a little sad we couldn’t find anything lying around, but that’s a good costume,” He nods at him. When he smiles the tips of his fake fangs poke out and Grif finds it adorable and then hates that he finds it adorable so he has to turn away from him. 

“Yeah, well, I can pull off anything,” Grif shrugs nonchalantly.

“You can’t pull off stained shirts and holey shorts in the middle of winter. Sorry, Grif, but no one can pull off that look.”

Grif gives him a noise of acknowledgement, but then someone knocks on the door. “Probably the pizza,” Grif says with a shrug. He walks over to the door, wallet shoved into the surprisingly deep pockets of his zombie attire, and ready to pay.

When he opens the door, there’s a beaming kid on the other side. Maybe kid isn’t quite the right word, but he doesn’t look like he is older than 20. “Hello, sir-” He says as soon as the door swings open. He then falters, his bright smile flickers for a second and his eyebrows draw together. He’s confused, and it makes Grif preen. “I, uh. Pizza!” The kid bursts out, forcing himself back on the right track. “I have your pizza delivery, sir!”

“Thanks,” Grif goes fishing for his wallet. He pays and gives him a good tip, because Grif knows that at jobs like that you practically live off of them, and that kid is going to need anything he can get. 

The kid shuffles a little. Almost like he’s nervous. “I’m really glad you ordered from us today, sir! Your patronage means a lot to us! I even left you a free order! Did you get it, sir?” The kid rambles.

Grif gives an affirmative grunt, but then decides to change the topic. Because how do you handle a kid who works at a pizza place just deciding he wants to give you a free pizza? “Where’s Bitters? Is he still off the schedule?” It’s been a while since Grif’s seen him. The last time he saw the other man, it wasn’t even through his job, it was actually in front of Tucker’s place on the third floor. “Do you live with the rest of the college kids on this floor?”

For a moment, the pizza delivery boy has this far away look in his eyes. “Yeah, ever since Bitters ate half a pizza when he was supposed to be delivering it, he’s been in pretty hot water with his boss. I think if it was anyone else, he would have been fired. But, Bitters must have really good luck!” He smiles again, brushing off the distant look in his eyes from recalling his friend’s punishment. “I do live with the others here! I didn’t know you knew them! I’m Matthews, sir!”

Grif nods, takes the pizzas, but before he can make another comment the poor delivery boy gets abruptly shoved out of the way. “Hey, move it, kid, I need to hide,” The voice says as they just barge into Grif and Simmons’ shared apartment. 

“Uh,” Grif starts, staring at the man who just barged in. “Sorry. I have to … deal with that I guess. Thanks for the pizza, Matthews,” With that Grif closes the door with his foot. He walks over to their coffee table and deposits their pizza onto it.

Simmons crosses his arms as they look at the person who just barged in. “Thank God, your door was open. I had to get away from Caboose-” Church stops abruptly, taking in the appearance of the two in front of him. “What did I just walk into?” He looks around at all the strung up Halloween decorations, “What the fuck is going on here?”

“What does it look like?” Simmons huffs. Idly, he flutters his cape behind him. Grif watches Church's eyes drift to the cape and then back to Simmons’ face. 

Church’s whole face pinches. He looks around like somehow, someone is conspiring against him. “Uh?” He asks, “I don’t know? The world's weirdest Valentines date?” He motions between them a few times, “Why are you two dressed like the undead? Are we mixing Twilight and Warm Bodies together to create the ultimate shitty movie?” He paused for a few seconds. “Actually, do you think a zombie would try to eat a vampire? They’re both dead right? Does that mean they wouldn’t?”

Simmons gives a glance at Grif, who returns it. Grif assumes they share a look to ruminate in the ridiculousness that is their lives. “They still might,” Simmons says and that is absolutely not what Grif was thinking, what the fuck Simmons? “I mean, vampires still have brains, and isn’t that what zombies feed off of? But if vampire organs don’t work, does that mean their brains don’t work? How would they operate?” He turns to Grif, deadly serious, “Does Edward Cullen have a functioning brain?”

Church snorts at him and pushes his glasses farther up his nose, “Of course you guys would bring up Twilight. I’d go all the way back to the Dracula lore.”

“You literally brought up Twilight first,” Grif points out.

“What? Shut up! I just needed a cheesy vampire romance movie.”

“Interview with the Vampire?” Grif suggests.

Simmons gives a light little hum, “I haven’t seen the movie in a while, but I don’t think that was a romance...” 

“That’s slander. The two male vampires were obviously in love. They even had a daughter, Simmons!”

Church stares at them. “What are you guys talking about?” He shakes his head disapprovingly, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose, “You guys are your own breed of nerds. I’ve never even seen that movie.”

Grif shakes his head at him, a frown on his face. He plucks a piece of pizza out of a box in front of him. “Why are you here, Church? Because so far, you’ve only come here and insulted Simmons and I.”

Church blinks, as if he’s remembering where he’s standing and why he is there. “Oh, yeah,” He reaches for a piece of pizza, but Grif slaps his hand away. The Blue pulls his hand to his chest and frowns at him. He is holding himself sort of like an injured dog. “I came here to get away from Caboose, but I didn’t know you two were this weird. Is this like, a hobby of yours or something?”

“It would take too long to explain it to you, plus it was already explained just a couple hundred words ago,” Simmons nudges the pizza away from Church. 

“What does that mean?”

Before anyone can say anything, there’s another knock on the door. But it sounds less like a knock and more like someone clumsily fumbling into their door. Church’s eyes widen and he suddenly leaps over the back of their couch, even though walking around would take the same amount of time. He lands on their cushions, momentarily, but then promptly falls right off with a loud  _ Thump. _ Grif and Simmons exchange a glance as a very lost sounding “Church?” Comes from the hallway.

“We have to let him in,” Grif says to Simmons. Simmons looks over at the door, and then over at the man hiding in front of their couch and nods at him. He doesn’t look happy, but he looks agreeable. “Keep him away from my pizza.”

Church stares at them both with wide eyes. He grips the edge of their couch cushions from his vantage point on the floor. “You can’t let him in!” He hisses, “Do you guys have any idea what day it is? Also don’t be an ass let me have some of your pizza.”

“Mine isn’t kosher, and Simmons only eats that gross vegan shit.”

“It isn’t  _ gross, _ Grif! It’s good for you!”

Church glares at them. His expression looks like he wants to say more, and knowing Church, he probably does. But before he can get out another word, Grif opens up their door. There’s an audible click, presumably from Church shutting his mouth so quickly his teeth click together. Caboose, who was on his way down the hall, turns and faces Grif. “Oh!” He exclaims, surprised. The tall man walks over to Grif, a sad smile on his lips. “Hello! I was wondering if you had seen Church? We usually spend every Valentine’s Day together. But I can’t find him since he left earlier,” He smacks his gums a little, “I’m sure he got lost. I do that, too, sometimes.”

Grif gives him a sardonic little smile, “I think I saw him somewhere around here. Do you want to come in to look for him?”

Caboose’s face lights up, “Yes! Oh, thank you Mr. Sea Monster!” He exclaims and then brushes past Grif to walk into his apartment. Grif stands there stunned for a few moments. “Why is there a sea monster in Grif and Simmons’ apartment?” Caboose questions, and then sees Simmons who is staring at the blue so gobsmacked that it looks like his eyes are going to pop out of his head, “Hello, Dracula!” Caboose greets.

Simmons sputters for a few seconds as he tries to figure out what to say. His eyes dart from Caboose to Grif and back again. “Dracula? Caboose, it’s me, Simmons!” He says and presses his own hands to his chest to emphasize his words. There’s a quiet, muffled snort from the front of their couch, and Grif has no doubt that Church is laughing at them. He should feel lucky that he can’t be seen from where Caboose is standing. Simmons’ cape flutters around him as his leg jerks out and he so obviously kicks Church and Grif covers his mouth to keep from laughing. 

Caboose gasps and his eyes light up as he takes a few steps closer to Simmons, “I did not know that you were a vampire, Simmons!” He pauses, nods his head once, “Neat.”

Simmons makes the noise of a balloon deflating. He stares at the ceiling for a few minutes before looking over at Grif. “I regret all of my life decisions and I blame you.” Grif gives him a little smirk, which Simmons returns in the form of a full smile. And Grif marvels at the fact that he and Simmons can have completely private moments even in a crowded room. It’s something that they cultivated by happenstance, with proximity. Like how he can just see Simmons and know exactly how he’s feeling, or how he can hear the tone of his voice and know his exact expression. 

He hates how soft he is for this nerd, what the fuck.

“Simmons,” Caboose whispers, loudly, “Is Mr. Sea Monster your valentine?”

And their private moment is shattered because suddenly Simmons is coughing and turning red. He balls his fists in his cape and his shoulders are practically at his ears and he is so tense. “I- Uh- Well- I-” He starts and also continues like that. 

Caboose quickly loses interest, turning back over to Grif. “Church is my Valentine,” He explains, “He’s my Valentine every year. We have a tradition! I would go up to him and ask him to be my Valentine and then he would tell me to go away,” He pauses and somehow it’s perfectly timed for when he says, with an exaggerated sniffle, “It was my favorite holiday of the year. I’m all alone now.” There’s another sniffle, as if he’s just barely holding back tears, and then he says in a very distraught tone, “I miss him so much!”

“Well you probably shouldn’t,” Grif says in a half-assed attempt at comfort. 

“He loved me!” Caboose wails.

Simmons looks down at what Grif knows is Church and presses his lips into a thin line. He crosses his arms over his chest and lets out a loud sigh, “Yeah, I have no idea why you would think that.” 

There’s a noise from around there that sounds suspiciously like Church saying ‘asshole’. Caboose takes that and runs with it. “Oh, Church!” He cries into the air, “It’s almost like I can hear his voice!” He frowns, sticking his bottom lip out and quivering it. “You should know what that’s like, Simmons. Grif is your best friend and he’s gotten replaced. And you’re a vampire now! He’s going to be scared of you!”

“Why would he be scared of me?” Simmons asks while scrunching up his nose. He doesn’t even bother to respond to the fact that he thinks Grif was replaced with some sort of Loch Ness Monster and not the zombie he  _ obviously _ is. This is damn near slanderous territory to Grif, and Simmons doesn’t even respond.

“Because he’s scared of bats, and vampires can turn into bats,” Caboose says simply.

At the mention of bats, Grif feels himself bristle. “Where’s the bats?” He asks, looking around, “There’s no bats here. Simmons, did you put up any bats?” 

“No, I didn’t put up any bats.”

“Are you sure?” Grif asks, stepping closer to Simmons, “Even the plastic ones freak me out. Their faces and wings and,” He stops himself so he can physically shudder. Simmons puts one hand on his back and pats sarcastically. 

Caboose looks at them for a second, “Oh!” Caboose chirps, “You have your Valentine right here, Simmons! When did Grif turn into a sea monster?” He questions, tilting his head at the two like he didn’t quite understand.

Simmons groans, pressing his hand flat on Grif’s back and then turning his attention to Caboose. “He’s not a monster, Caboose. He’s just in a costume. Like, a Halloween costume.”

Caboose frowns at him, “But it is not Halloween. It is Valentine’s day.” He points out.

“We’re not celebrating Valentine’s Day like Valentine’s day,” Simmons stresses. Grif can feel him clench his fist into his clothes, but he’s more focused on calming down after some bat talk. “We just decided to celebrate a random holiday.”

“But Valentine’s Day is supposed to be spent with people you love and care about! You don’t have to be dating them or anything, but if you love someone, you should express it to them. That’s what I do for Church!” Caboose’s tone is very matter-of-fact like, but still carefree in that easy way he speaks. Grif glances at Simmons out of the corner of his eye. Simmons stands stick straight and stares straight ahead.

“Church is right here,” Grif points out, effectively ending any conversation they didn’t want to have. All three people standing turn to Church, who has his hand in the breadstick box and is laying on the floor. 

“Uh,” Church says intelligently. 

“My breadsticks!” Grif cries out. Simmons grabs the box and pulls Church’s hand out of it. 

“Church!” Caboose exclaims, making his way over to him and picking him right up off the floor and gathering him into his arms, “I am so happy to see you!” He cheers. Caboose shakes the other blue a little, and it reminds Grif of when a young girl is holding her favorite stuffed animal. 

Church flails uselessly in the other man’s grip, “Caboose! Put me down! Caboose!” And Caboose freezes, but before anything happens, Church gives a cry of, “On my feet! Don’t just drop me!” 

“Okay,” Caboose says loudly, and instantly drops him. Church lands directly on his ass and lets out a loud groan. Caboose’s face is bright and he’s smiling and he looks so happy that he found his Valentine. Church, on the other hand, glares at Grif and if looks could kill Grif would be dead several times over. “I hate all of you. Everyone in this room. I hate you all, so much.”

“You’re a blue,” Grif drawls. He takes a breadstick out of the box that Simmons is now holding protectively, “So it’s not like your opinion matters to me, like, at all.”   
  


Church sneers at him and grabs for Caboose’s hand. “Come on,” He says, leading him out of Grif and Simmons’ apartment, “I can’t stand to be around these assholes for another minute.” And as he drags out his fellow blue, he rants about the two reds he still sought refuge in at the beginning of all of this.

“And then!” Church says once they passed the threshold, “Simmons kicked me!” 

Caboose nods, just taking in all of Church’s pissed off ranting, “That is not nice.” And he closes the door behind them.

Grif sighs. He leans against Simmons. Simmons drapes his cape over the both of them, and Grif does his absolute best to contain his smile. “God, I hate dealing with our neighbors. Everyday it’s a whole new breed of nonsense,” Grif complains as he takes the breadstick box from Simmons’ thin hands and sets it back on their coffee table. 

Simmons gently urges Grif to their couch. “Yeah, it’s not what I expected when we signed our lease,” He shrugs, “But it could be worse, I think.” Simmons says. And although he doesn’t elaborate, Grif knows what he means. The people here might be annoying and loud and rude and dumb, but they’ve become like their own little family, in a way. 

“Yeah,” Grif agrees, “Could be worse.”

Simmons gives him a little smile and scoots a little closer to him. They put on their first movie. It’s some awful horror movie that tries to take itself too seriously. Grif and Simmons loudly give their commentary the whole time. When Simmons jumps at one of the jumpscares, Grif laughs at him. Simmons groans, slapping Grif gently on the arm. And it’s nice, just spending this time with him, having their own little tradition away from everyone else they know. It’s theirs and no one else's and that means a lot to Grif, for some reason. 

But that still doesn’t quite satisfy the ache inside of him that wishes he could celebrate Valentine’s Day with Simmons normally, so instead he just settles for watching the credits roll and saying a quiet, “Happy Valentine’s Day, kissass.”

And to his delight, Simmons responds with his own, “Happy Valentine’s Day, fatass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually wrote the bulk of this chapter on valentines day. which is my brothers birthday! and he brought up halloween when we were eating cake with him! which was after i had written about three quarters of the chapter. so it was a weird experience where i began to fret that he knew what i was up to. im sure he doesnt know... probably.


End file.
